Classic Poem

The maple's limbs of yellow flowers
Made spots of sunshine here and there
In the bleak woods; a merry pair
Of blue-birds, which the April-showers
Had softly called, were come that day;
Another week would bring the May,
And all the meadow-grass would shine
With strawberries; and all the trees
Whisper of coming blooms, and bees
Work busy, making golden wine.

The white-haired grand-dame, faint and sick,
Sits fretful in her chair of oak;
The clock is nearly on the stroke
Of all the day's best hour, and quick
The dreamy house will glimmer bright—
No candle needed any more,
For Miriam's smile is so like light,
The moths fly with her in the door.

The lilies carvéd in her chair
The grand-dame counts, but cannot tell
If they be three or seven; the pair
Of merry blue-birds, singing well,
She does not hear; nor can she see
The moonshine, cold and pure, and bright,
Walk like an angel clothed in white,
The path where Miriam should be.

Almost she hears the little feet
Patter along the path of sands;
Her eyes are making pictures sweet,
And every breeze her cheek that fans,
Half cheats her to believe, I wis,
It is her pretty grandchild's kiss.

The dainty hood, her fancy too
Sees hanging on the cabin wall,
And from her modest eyes of blue,
Fair Miriam putting back the fall
Of her brown hair, and laughing wild—
Her darling merry-hearted child,
Then with a step as light and low
As any wood-birds in the snow,
She goes about her household cares.

“The saints will surely count for prayers
The duties love doth sweeten so,”
Says the pleased grand-dame; but alas!
No feet are pattering on the grass,
No hood is hanging on the wall—
It was a foolish dreaming, all.

The morning-glories winding up
The rustic pillars of the shed,
Open their dark bells, cup by cup,
To the June's rainy clouds; the bed
Of rosemary and meadow-sweet
Which Miriam kept with so much care,
Is run to weeds, and everywhere
Across the paths her busy feet
Wore smooth and hard, the grass has grown—
And still the grand-dame sits alone,
Counting the lilies in her chair—
Her ancient chair of carved oak—
And fretful, listening for the stroke
Of the old clock, and for the pair
Of blue-birds that have long been still;
Saying, as o'er the neighboring hill
The shadows gather thick and dumb—
“'T is time that Miriam were come.”

And now the spiders cease to weave,
And from between the corn's green stems
Drawing after her her scarlet hems,
Dew-dappled, the brown-vested Eve
Slow to his purple pillows drops;
His tired team now the plowman stops;
In the dim woods the axe is still,
And sober, winding round the hill,
The cows come home. “Come, pretty one,
I'm watching for you at the door,”
Calls the old grand-dame o'er and o'er,
“'Tis time the working all were done.”
And kindly neighbors come and go,
But gently piteous; none have said,
“Your pretty grandchild sleepeth so
We cannot wake her;” but instead
Piling the cushions in her chair,
Carvéd in many a quaint design
Of leaves and lilies, nice and fine,
They tell her she must not despair
To meet her pretty child again—
To see her wear forever more,
A smile of brighter love than when
The moths flew with her in the door.