Thurs., 12 Cloudy & damp. Help a little. Dumas washes & cleans out. Mable Shields leaves on the first train north. I finish the lunch cloth begun in St. Albans. Henrietta comes in the afternoon, just a short visit.
And not one of her best poems, I think. This is from Green Mountain Echoes, published in 1927.
QUEEN ANNE’S LACE
The brightness of summer was in the air,
The lure of the morning was everywhere;
It lured Queen Anne from her palace of state
And she passed out thru the Royal Gate;
She closed the gae and strolled away,
Alone with the joy of the summer day.
The tall grass waved in the passing breeze
And birds were mating in the trees . . .
She sat down with the sun in her face
And drew from its hiding her filmy lace;
She knitted and knitted, for queens, we know,
Have fads like others, wherever they go.
She sat and kitted and drowsy grew. . .
Her stitches dropt but she never knew . . .
In the velvet grass where the spring-god slept,
And every stitch he treasured and kept.
The winds whispered soft above the place
Where Queen Anne sat and kitted her lace,
’Til the western sun was hanging low
And even queens must homeward go.
When Spring released from their wintry bed
The growing things to the sun overhead,
Green spikes sprang up about hte place
Where Queen Anne sat and knitted her lace,
And soon the ground was covered quite
With filmy flowers of lacy white.
The wind caught up each little seed;
The spring-god planted them with greed . . .
It may be the lady never knew
Her stitches dropt and how they grew,
But you and I and every one knows
How Queen Anne’s lace by the roadside grows.