Árdís - 01.01.1954, Síða 25

Ársrit Bandalags lúterskra kvenna
23
Nostalgia
I left the hills . . . the rooted hills that slumber
And dream within an aura of enchantment
While yet gray summer’s feast is richly spread;
I left the woods where bird-song is the roof-tree,
Where sound and silence graciously forgather
In sweet tranquility;
Where prairie lilies, wearing scarlet togas,
Vie with the blushing rose;
Where winds comb through the grass, and circling time
Seems of but little moment.
All these I bartered for the dusty town!
Of what avail to dwell upon them? Yet . . .
An after-image, like a shifting veil,
Or a pale echo from the rim of night,
Haunts the secret cloister of my soúl.
Cloth of Gold
My loom was rough, and shaped by hand, my thread
Was only flax, around my feet ’twas spread
I wept a bitter tear;
I longed to handle silken thread and fine,
To weave a pattern of my own design
That to my heart was dear,
To work in many colors bright and gay;
I wept in vain and longed to have my way.
I wove my piece of cloth, and in the weaving
I learnt to weep no more, to cease my grieving
And taught my lips to smile,
Long since, I looked upon my work now proven
The warp and weft so closely interwoven,
I paused to muse awhile.
And lo! Like finest silk, fold upon fold
It lay before me, changed to cloth of gold.
Helen Swinburne