The Loom of Life

The old log house where Margaret lived, whose roof had mossy grown, Reposed amid its clump of trees, a queen upon her throne. The landscape round smiled proudly and the flowers shed sweet perfume, When Margaret plied the shuttle of the rude old-fashioned loom. The world has grown fastidious-demands things ever new- But we could once see beauties in the rainbow's every hue; The bee could then find nectar in a common clover bloom, And simple hearts hear music in the shuttle of the loom. The picture that my memory paints is never seen to-day- The April sun of by-gone years has lost its brightest ray: A fancy-wrought piano in a quaint, antique old room, But Margaret sang her sweetest to the music of the loom. She wore a simple home-spun dress, for Margaret's taste was plain, Yet life was like a song to her, with work a sweet refrain. The sunshine filled her days with joy, night's shadows brought no gloom.