Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE EMBROIDERESS AT MIDNIGHT, by MARY ANN BROWNE Poet's Biography First Line: She plies her needle till the lamp Last Line: Thy consecrated love. Alternate Author Name(s): Gray, James, Mrs.; Gray, Mary Anne Browne Subject(s): Embroiderers; Poverty | ||||||||
She plies her needle till the lamp Is waxing pale and dim; She hears the watchman's heavy tramp, And she must watch like him: -- Her hands are dry, her forehead damp, Her dark eyes faintly swim. Look on her work! -- here blossom flowers, The lily and the rose, Bright as the gems of summer hours, But not to die like those; Here, fadeless as in Eden's bowers, For ever they repose. Once, maiden, thou wast fresh and fair As those sweet flowers of thine; Now, shut from sunny light and air, How canst thou choose but pine? Neglected flows thy raven hair, Like the uncultured vine. Look on her work! -- no common mind Arranged that glowing group -- Wild wreaths the stately roses bind, Sweet bells above them droop -- Ye almost see the sportive wind Parting the graceful troop! Look on her work! -- but look the more On her unwearied heart, And put aside the chamber-door That doth the daughter part From that dear mother, who before Taught her this cunning art. She sleeps -- that mother, sick and pale -- She sleeps -- and little deems That she, who doth her features veil, All day, in flitting gleams Of anxious hope, this hour doth hail, But not for happy dreams. God bless her in her lone employ, And fill those earnest eyes With visions of the coming joy, Waiting her sacrifice, When they, who give her this employ, Pay her its stinted price! Think how her trembling hand will clasp The treasure it will hold, With that which seems a greedy grasp -- Yet not for love of gold: That look -- that sigh's relieving gasp, Its deeper springs unfold. Think how her hasty feet will roam The market and the street, To purchase for her humble home The food and clothing meet, And with what gladness she will come Back to this poor retreat! Poor maiden! if the fair ones who Thy graceful 'broidery buy, Only one-half thy struggles knew, And filial piety, Methinks some drop of pity's dew Would gem the proudest eye! It is not here its full reward Thy gentle heart will prove; Here ever must thy lot be hard, But there is ONE above Who sees, and will not disregard, Thy consecrated love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WEALTH OF THE DESTITUTE by DENISE LEVERTOV EMPTY PITCHFORKS by THOMAS LUX FUNERAL SERVICE by EVE MERRIAM A SMALL COUNTRY by CLARIBEL ALEGRIA DOCUMENTAL by CLARIBEL ALEGRIA NOTES ON POVERTY by HAYDEN CARRUTH SONG OF TWO CROWS by HAYDEN CARRUTH PENCIL STUB JOURNALS: CHOICES by JOHN CIARDI AT LAST WE KILLED THE ROACHES by LUCILLE CLIFTON A WORLD WITHOUT WATER by MARY ANN BROWNE |
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