The Sewing-Girl

"And now, blow out your candle, lad, and get to bed. See, the dawn is in the sky. Open your window and let its freshness rouge your cheek.     You've earned your rest. Sleep."     Aye, but before I do so, let me read again the last of my Ballads.     The Sewing-Girl      The humble garret where I dwell      Is in that Quarter called the Latin;      It isn't spacious - truth to tell,      There's hardly room to swing a cat in.      But what of that! It's there I fight      For food and fame, my Muse inviting,      And all the day and half the night      You'll find me writing, writing, writing.      Now, it was in the month of May      As, wrestling with a rhyme rheumatic,      I chanced to look across the way,      And lo! within a neighbor attic,      A hand drew back the window shade,      And there, a picture glad and glowing,      I saw a sweet and slender maid,      And she was sewing, sewing, sewing.      So poor the room, so small, so scant,      Yet somehow oh, so bright and airy.      There was a pink geranium plant,      Likewise a very pert canary.      And in the maiden's heart it seemed      Some fount of gladness must be springing,      For as alone I sadly dreamed      I heard her singing, singing, singing.      God love her! how it cheered me then      To see her there so brave and pretty;      So she with needle, I with pen,      We slaved and sang above the city.      And as across my streams of ink      I watched her from a poet's distance,      She stitched and sang . . . I scarcely think      She was aware of my existence.      And then one day she sang no more.      That put me out, there's no denying.      I looked - she labored as before,      But, bless me! she was crying, crying.      Her poor canary chirped in vain;      Her pink geranium drooped in sorrow;      "Of course," said I, "she'll sing again.      Maybe," I sighed, "she will to-morrow."      Poor child; 'twas finished with her song:      Day after day her tears were flowing;      And as I wondered what was wrong      She pined and peaked above her sewing.      And then one day the blind she drew,      Ah! though I sought with vain endeavor      To pierce the darkness, well I knew      My sewing-girl had gone for ever.      And as I sit alone to-night      My eyes unto her room are turning . . .      I'd give the sum of all I write      Once more to see her candle burning,      Once more to glimpse her happy face,      And while my rhymes of cheer I'm ringing,      Across the sunny sweep of space      To hear her singing, singing, singing.     Heigh ho! I realize I am very weary. It's nice to be so tired, and to     know one can sleep as long as one wants. The morning sunlight floods in     at my window, so I draw the blind, and throw myself on my bed. . . .