Knitting

E’en though her tongue may by its force

Leave me as helpless as a horse,

When saucy pup doth bark at him-

I’ll love her better for that whim.

No steady, summer’s love for me,

But let her still uncertain be;

Like spring, whose gusts, and frowns, and showers,

Do grow us fresher, lovlier flowers.

No substances on earth can make

The joy I from her shadow take;

When first I saw her face, I could

Not help draw near her where she stood;

I felt more joy than when a Bee

Sees in a garden a Plum tree

All blossoms and no leaves, and he

Leaps o’er the fence immediately.

I like to see her when she sits-

Not dreaming I look on- and knits;

To see her hands, with grace so light,

Stabbing the wool that’s red or white;

With shining needles, sharp and long,

That never seem to go far wrong.

And that sight better pleases me

Than green hills in the sun; to see

The beach, what time the tide goes out,

And leaves his gold spread all about.