From peasant-hands fair art can grow;
From the rough brow thought springs with lance
And helmet: God loves these!"
She wept; then raised her head, and swung
The aged wheel with whispering whir;
And as it turned, it softly sung
(In fancy) this response to her:--
"I had not spun the sower's shirt,
I had not kept the children warm,
If I had found a wearing harm
In my monotonous toil alert.
"To those who wait with eager eyes
And ready hands and tender hearts,--
They find the giant year, that parts,
Hath forged strong links with paradise!
"Sigh not that Time doth turn the glass
To let the golden sand-grains run,
While longer shadows of the sun
Fall o'er the spring-time, bonny lass!
"The circumstances of a life
Are little things compared to it;
The way love's shown is ever fit;
Thank God, who gives us love, not strife!
"And if I do not stand beside
The hearth, as fifty years ago,
No current of the years that flow
Can rob the radiance from a bride!
"I know not why the world should change,
I know not why my day is done;
And yet this limit of my zone
Hints of the limit to all range.
"Man's progress always alters tint,
As mountains move from rose to gray;
Yet like their shapes, love still doth stay
The same, complete,--'tis God's imprint.
"And yet I dream Time yet may turn
Its wheel to weave the humbler thought,
As in old days.
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