Classic Poem

Who can tell me where I'm going,
Tell a little maid like me,
With her fingers worn for sewing,
But her soul as full of glee
As of scented, blushing blossoms yonder twisted apple tree?

For perchance my life is twisted
Out of shape in so much thread;
I was never firmly-wristed,
With a steady back and head,
And you taste so many stitches in a single loaf of bread.

And by eve my arms grow tired,
Underneath their level stare,
Shaping folds to be admired
On these ladies, who are fair.
Would we look so white, I wonder, if we had such silks to wear?

For to serve another's beauty
All the days when you are young,
And to do a mirror's duty,
With the ever-praising tongue;
— Would you rather sing, red robin, or like sometimes to be sung?

I forget — to stain with sorrow
This clear-colored holiday.
Yesterday and the to-morrow
Have no robin on their spray.
Can you tell me where I'm going, winding down the woodland way?

No, Sir Squirrel, you've no notion,
With your arching tail a-swell.
You may make a fine commotion
In the branches where you dwell.
You may chatter till the nuts fall. I can keep my secret well.

Holding back these saplings pliant,
I can catch an odor sweet;
I can see my rock, the giant,
Crouching in the noonday heat,
With the last pale Mayflowers dying clustered round his shaggy feet.

How my forest-thoughts are jumbled
With the cambric shred and scrap,
And my work-box overtumbled,
Needles scattered as may hap,
Like these fallen, brown pine-needles, five sharp heads in one tall cap.

Oh, but now the leaves are parting,
And I reach the bridge at last,
With the white waves under-darting,
That so still and these so fast;
If I were the bridge, I would not like to be forever passed.

And above there is the highway,
And beyond there is the church.
They will not be looking my way,
Even if this friendly birch
Did not shield me as completely as a bird upon her perch.

Little dreameth she who lingers
Here, and thou — thou dreamest less,
Bonny bridegroom, what small fingers
Wrought thy lady's wedding-dress,
Who the mysteries might whisper of that bridal loveliness.

I may laugh — 'tis close and shady, —
Workmanship will have its pride,
And I fashioned yon fair lady,
Sewing stitches in my side.
Youth is good and love is better, but the satin makes the bride.

Now they come. I hear the voices,
And the merry church-bells ring,
While the very wood rejoices,
For the birds fly up to sing.
Hush! to weep upon their coming were a wicked welcoming.

I will shape my lips to kindness,
Smiling on them, ere they go.
It were sudden cure for blindness
To behold them pacing so,
She with modest, drooping lashes, he with eager looks aglow.

Bonny bridegroom, art thou idle
In my craft, when all is said?
Dost thou weave no raiment bridal
For the lady thou shalt wed?
Dost thou shape her true-love vesture, sewing with a golden thread?

Prithee, brother artist, speed me
With a little of thy skill,
For I fear thou dost exceed me,
And my labor shows but ill.
Yet — oh, shame if thy seam parteth, while my dull thread holdeth still!

So I praise a shining treasure
If no nearer than a star;
So I steal a bitter pleasure,
Watching weddings from afar;
But before the little seamstress long and dim the pathways are.

Nay! my robin is turned raven,
And his wings are feathered wrong.
Certes, he is but a craven,
Who would sing me such a song.
I will run again and seek him. I will search the lane along.

I may find my fate's redressing;
I may meet a crooked witch,
Or a statue, white with blessing,
Wandered from its Roman niche,
Or a folded bud to blossom even while I sit and stitch.