Classic Poem

She was fifteen — had great eyes
Deep with dreams of paradise.
Not a paradise divine,
Nor Eve's Eden, nor yours, nor mine,
But the sort of thing made good
'Twixt warm weather and young blood.
As 'twixt sun and marsh the flies
Quicken in large companies,
'Twixt her fancies took its station,
Half corruption's half creation.
Yet she thought no harm, not she,
Meant no malice certainly,
Only she was weak and vain,
Lazy and afraid of pain:
Sat at open windows still
To watch the gold go up the hill,
Stood at open doors as still
To watch the gold come down the hill,
Lolled on couches with drawn-in
Feet, and knees to prop her chin,
Dreaming, dreaming — till one said,
" Get some work, thou idle head!"
Then she put out a white hand
Blandly to the basket-stand,
And you heard the stitches creep
Up the long hem, half asleep;
Little stitches with a murmur
Each one drawing past the former,
Till the staring face of Day
In the window paled away.