Poetry.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 2271, 29 January 1887, Page 1 (Supplement)

Poetry.

THE WORK-BASKET RICH

ARD GAVE ME

On my table there's a basket, lined all through with faded blue ; And the finely-twisted osiers, they are brown and faded, too ; But when Richard gave it to me, more than forty years ago, There was not a prettier basket in the country side, I know. How my little wicker treasure has been blended all these years With a wife's delightful duty, with a mother's hopes and fears ! Iri : it lay my wedding garments, and the dainty lawn and lace, That I fashioned into dresses for my first sweet baby—Grace. It has never since been empty; never wanted coat or sock, Little jacket, little apron, little sacque, or braided frock. Larger, larger grew the garments, till the boys were working-men. Busy in the fields or city, with the plough, . the scales, the pen. Till the little girls were women, happy wives, and mothers, too; Each one with her own work-basket; each with her own work to do. Yet the little garments pile up ; every year there's more and more ; And I think grandmother's fingers never were so full before. "Weary?" No, I'm never weary; but I should be sad and dull If there were no little garments; if the basket was not full; If there were no little jackets to be patched ' up firm and strong. And no sewing and no knitting—l should think the days were long. Richard, smiling, often tells me: "Forty years since you begun ; Thread and needle always busy. Is the sewing nearly done ?" And I answer: " No, my husband ; spring is coming, warm and fair, And the darling little children have not got a thing to wear." Or I answer: " Winter's coming, and their wraps are all to make ; You may smile, and you may wonder at the stitches that I take ; But' when all the children love me, and I love them every one, Can I wish the basket empty? Can I wish ] iny sewing done ?' AN IDYLL. Where the white water lillies show Their heads above the silvery river, And in the gentle ebb, and flow, The tall green rushes bend, and quiver Where with the birds' sweet song is blent The ceaseless music of the stream, A pilgrim from the town, I spent A day that seemed a golden dream. Ah ! to return from scenes like these, With only memory to remind you Of rippling stream, and waving trees, Left now, alas ! so far behind you; In looking on the evening sky That o'er the smoke and tumult blushes, My thoughts back from the city fly, To sunset there among the rushos. But when the crimson melts to grey, And night's mists creep round roof and tower; The thoughts that have been far away, Come back, and in the twilight hour. Far off where water lillies blow— Calmly the evening star is shining,Reflected in the river's flow— And I ain in the city pining. —J. H. Symes.