SADIE’S boudoir is a meadow,
Carpeted with blue-eyed grass;
Slender birches, rounded maples,
Frame her inlaid looking-glass.
Curtains woven up in cloud-land
Trail their fringes over all,
Shifting shadows gray and purple,
Which aerial elves let fall.
Hither Sadie, morn and evening,
Comes for water from the spring,
Pausing ere she fills her pitcher
Where the greenest mosses cling,—
Pausing where, as in a mirror,
She a wistful face beholds;
Magic mirror, for within it
Many a vision fair unfolds.
When the April clouds are driven
Over depths of azure skies,
Windows open into heaven,
And she sees her mother’s eyes.
When she binds upon her forehead
Wreath of daisies twined with wheat,
She is queen, and wears a jewelled
Crown, with slippers on her feet.
When the glories of October,
Crimson maple, golden birch,
Make her mirror finer, richer,
Than stained windows of a church,—
She of golden-rod and aster
Weaves a garland for her hair,
Leans above the magic mirror,
Murmuring, “Mother called me fair.”
But ’tis best when clouds are flying
O’er the clear blue April skies,
And through dreamy depths she gazes
Into heaven and mother’s eyes.
THE RUSTIC MIRROR.