Page:The college beautiful, and other poems.djvu/46

34 Dost thou shape her true-love vesture, sewing with a golden thread? Prithee, brother artist, speed me With a little of thy skill. For I fear thou dost exceed me, And my labor shows but ill. Yet — oh, shame if thy seam parteth, while my dull thread holdeth still! So I praise a shining treasure, If no nearer than a star. So I steal a bitter pleasure, Watching weddings from afar. But before the little seamstress long and dim the pathways are. Nay ! my robin is turned raven, And his wings were feathered wrong. Certes, he is but a craven, Who would sing me such a song. I will run again and seek him. I will search the lane along. I may find my fate's redressing ; I may meet a crooked witch, Or a statue, white with blessing, Wandered from its Roman niche, Or a folded bud to blossom even while I sit and stitch.