Poems (Storrie)/Miss Lintlocks

by Agnes Louisa Storrie

Miss Lintlocks.

Miss Lintlocks sits where the morning sun
 Has woven a golden mesh,
And the airs that pass across the grass
 Are tender, and sweet, and fresh.

Miss Lintlocks sings in a crooning voice,
 Like a wind through the water-reeds,
Of the strangest things, of flowers with wings,
 And wonderful dancing weeds,

Of birds that talk, of clouds that make
 Soft pillows for little ones,
And of sailing high thro' a purple sky
 All sprinkled with silver suns.

Miss Lintlocks smiles at her dimpled foot
 And nods at her tinted toes,
Then slips the tips 'tween her parted lips
 And the point of her little nose,

For her knitted socks in the grass are hid
 And her shoes are, she knows not where;
I fear, in sooth, to tell the truth
 That Miss Lintlocks does not care.

There are shimmering waves of greenest grass,
 There's a soft wind from the south,
She surveys the skies with pensive eyes
 And her pink toes in her mouth.

Miss Lintlocks knows what the flowers think,
 She hears what the dust-motes say
As they spin and dance in the golden lance
 That strikes through the shining day;

And the swinging leaves and the rosy halls
 Of the oleander tree—
They flutler near to her little ear
 And murmur drowsily.

Miss Lintlocks sways, like a blossom bowed
 With a heartful of silver dew,
And her song grows dim, and a fringed rim
 Sinks over her eyes' soft blue;

And the dimpled foot and the tinted toes
 Have slipped from her loosened hold,
And lie like fair rose-petals there
 Across the green and gold.

Miss Lintlocks sleeps, and her tiny palms
 On the grasses lie uncurled;
She is locked in a deep, sweet, childish sleep,
 Unspotted from the world.

My little bud in the sunny grass!
 My maid with the lint-white locks.
God keep thy feet from the toils, my sweet,
 From thorns and bruising rocks!

I could see thy life in a mist of grief,
 I could bear thou should'st suffer pain,
But I pray my breath may be held in death
 Ere I see thee with spot or stain.

God keep thine ears for the whispering leaves,
 Thine eyes for the bright sun-scroll,
While thy heart is free for their ministry
 I'll fear not for thy soul.