She sits there in her high-backed rocking-chair, The sunbeams playing on her silvery hair. Her flying fingers of thin loveliness Touch the white damask with a light caress. Her happy smile is constant proof to me Of an eternal joy in ministry. I wonder at the rhythm and the grace With which she guides the needle to its place— The deft and skillful motion to and fro— While she sings softly as the stitches grow. Her smile grows wistful as she sings and sews Remembering all the lovely things she knows. |