Poems (Scudder)/My Lady's Sampler
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.