THE BABY SORCERESS

by: Thomas Wentworth Higginson (1823-1911)

Y 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.

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