Poems (Kimball)/Nothing to do
NOTHING TO DO.
A STRIP of snowiest linen Half broidered and stamped in blue, And the gleam of a threadless needle Piercing the pattern through: The needle is ready, yet the sweet little lady Sits sighing for something to do.
Heaped on the table beside her Blossoms of every hue; Delicate, odorous roses— The rarest that ever grew: The vase stands ready while the sweet little lady Sits wishing for something to do.
Half hid under flowers a volume In daintiest gold and blue, Just parted, as if it would open At "The Miller's Daughter" for you: The book lies ready, yet the sweet little lady Sits sighing for something to do.
A silent harp in the corner, And melodies old and new Scattered in pretty disorder— Songs of the false and the true: The harp stands ready—still the sweet little lady Sits longing for something to do.
A sudden wind-sweep and flutter— The door wide open blew; A step in the hall, and swiftly, Like a bird, to the threshold she flew: Blushing, already the sweet little lady Forgets she has nothing to do!