A STRIP of snowiest linen
Half broidered and stamped in blue,
And the gleam of a threadless needle
Piercing the pattern through:
The needle is ready, yet the sweet little lady
Sits sighing for something to do.

Heaped on the table beside her
Blossoms of every hue;
Delicate, odorous roses —
The rarest that ever grew:
The vase stands ready while the sweet little lady
Sits wishing for something to do.

Half hid under flowers a volume
In daintiest gold and blue,
Just parted, as if it would open
At " The Miller's Daughter " for you:
The book lies ready, yet the sweet little lady
Sits sighing for something to do.

A silent harp in the corner,
And melodies old and new
Scattered in pretty disorder —
Songs of the false and the true:
The harp stands ready — still the sweet little lady
Sits longing for something to do.

A sudden wind sweep and flutter —
The door wide open blew;
A step in the hall, and swiftly,
Like a bird, to the threshold she flew:
Blushing, already the sweet little lady
Forgets she has nothing to do!