Where I
sat and calmly spun
What a spark could kindle,
Trod a young and handsome one
Too close to my spindle.
Praised what should be praised as fair —
What harm was there to dread?
Mine, a head of flaxen hair
Like my flaxen thread.
Calmer was he not, thereby —
Left not, as of old.
Rent in twain, the flossy ply,
Lengths I long had told.
And the flax's measured weight
Tipped the scales once more,
But I could not brag and prate
As I did before.
When I to the weaver trudged,
I felt something start:
Good swift kicks, or so I judged,
Slugged at my poor heart.
Now, though sunstruck, I must wend
Through the heat to bring
Linen for the bleach — and bend
With pains, above the spring.
That which in my little room
I calmly, finely spun
Comes — how could it fail to bloom? —
At last, and finds the sun.
© 2009 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author. |