Trousseau.

Exquisite silken things, as sheer
As gossamer; (“Hand-made, my dear!”)
Faint pinks, elusive greens, soft blues,
Pale, glowing yellows—rainbow hues
Adrift with lace like summer seas
With foam. Why should I sigh for these?
I do not want such things—I know
I could not sit for hours and sew
Small, patient stitches in a seam—
I could not quietly sew and dream
Of bridal robes and wedding bells;
My restless fancy never dwells
On homely fireside happiness.
I have not loved, how shall I guess
What tender secret thought has made
Your fair cheeks glow a deeper shade?
Ah, fold with reverent hands away
Your gleaming cobweb treasures! Lay
Your rainbow hopes and dreams between
The wisps of pink, the films of green—
I do not want such things … and yet
What is this ache if not regret?

—Katherine O'Brien.

* * *