In sheen of silken splendor,
With glinting threads of gold,
I've seen the priceless marvels
Once hung in halls of old,
Where fair hands wrought the lily,
And brave hands held the lance,
And stately lords and ladies
Stepped through the courtly dance.
I've looked on rarer fabrics,
The wonders of the loom,
That caught the flowers of summer,
And captive held their bloom;
But not their wreathing beauty,
Though fit for queens to wear,
Can with one household treasure,
That's all my own, compare.
It has no golden value,
The simple patchwork spread,—
Its squares in homely fashion
Set in with green and red;
But in those faded pieces
For me are shining bright,
Ah! many a summer morning,
And many a winter night.
The dewy breath of clover,
The leaping light of flame,
Like spells my heart come over,
As one by one I name
These bits of old-time dresses—
Chintz, cambric, calico—
That looked so fresh and dainty
On my darlings long ago.
This violet was mother's;
I seem to see her face,
That ever like a sunrise
Lit up the shadiest place.
This buff belonged to Susan;
That scarlet spot was mine;
And Fannie wore this pearly white,
Where purple pansies shine.
I turn my patchwork over—
A book with pictured leaves—
And I feel the lilac fragrance,
And the snow-fall on the eaves.
Of all my heart's possessions,
I think it least could spare
The quilt we children pieced at home
When mother dear was there.
