Thomas Wentworth Higginson (Томас Уэнтворт Хиггинсон)
The Baby Sorceress
MY baby sits beneath the tall elm-trees, A wreath of tangled ribbons in her hands; She twines and twists the many-coloured strands,-- A little sorceress, weaving destinies. Now the pure white she grasps; now naught can please But strips of crimson, lurid as the brands From passion's fires; or yellow, like the sands That lend soft netting to the azure seas. And so with sweet, incessant toil she fills A summer hour, still following fancies new, Till through my heart a sudden terror thrills Lest, as she weaves, her aimless choice prove true. Thank God! our Fates proceed not from our wills: The Power that spins the thread shall blend the hue.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s other poems:
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