Classic Poem

Broken, dismantled! would that it were mine:
I would not keep it in that dusty nook,
Where tangled cobwebs cross and intertwine,
And old, grim spiders from their corners look.

From distaff, band; and polished rim, are hung
The dusty meshes. Black the spindle is,
Crooked, and rusty — a dead, silent tongue,
That once made whirring music — there it lies.

Ah, dear to me is the forsaken thing!
I gaze upon it and my eyes grow dim;
For I can see my mother, hear her sing,
As winds the shining thread, and whirls the rim.

So sweet she sang — her youngest on her knee —
Now a low warble, now some grand old hymn,
Sublime, exultant, full of victory,
Triumphant as the songs of seraphim.

Sweet toiler! through her life of crowded care,
While grief came oft, and pain, and weariness,
Still swelled the anthem, still was breathed the prayer,
Till death came clasping with its cold caress.

She sings no more; beside the chimney wide
No more she spins. Years come and go;
Above her grave on the lone hillside,
The snow drifts lie, the summer grasses grow.