Poems (Scudder)/My Lady's Sampler

by Antoinette Quinby Scudder

MY LADY'S SAMPLER

Heigh-ho, my winsome Lady—
 You're striving hard, I know,
To match your great-grandmother
 Who many years ago
A sampler worked in cross-stitch;
 It hangs upon the wall
In frame of polished walnut,
 Its hues scarce dimmed at all.

She wore her dark hair parted
 In neat and glossy bands,
The only jewel that ever
 Adorned her pretty hands
Was just a wee gold thimble,
 Its rim set round with blue
Forget-me-nots of turquoise,
 A gift of lover true.

Your flying fingers sparkle
 With diamonds and pearls,
And sure, I think the sun-sprites
 That haunt those gleaming curls,
Unless they prove more wary
 Than they have been to-day,
In such a golden tangle
 Are bound to go astray.

She worked her sampler heedful
 Of every stitch and slow,
With purple-breasted peacocks
 And fir-trees in a row—
Such tiny trees o'ershadowed
 By crimson roses tall,
And lastly, in one corner,
 A sprig of heartsease small.

You work such dainty patterns
 Of bright-winged butterflies,
Fantastic birds whose plumage
 Is of a hundred dyes,
And lovers' knots entwining
 Of palest pink and blue,
But ere you've finished, sweetheart,
 Oh, work a Heart's-ease, too.