THE miller's daughter Combs her hair, Like flocks of doves As soft as vair . . . Oh, how those soft flocks flutter down Over the empty grassy town. Like a queen in a crown Of gold light, she Sits 'neath the shadows' Flickering tree -- Till the old dame went the way she came, Playing bobcherry with a candle-flame. Now Min the cat With her white velvet gloves Watches where sat The mouse with her loves -- (Old and malicious Mrs. Grundy Whose washing-day is from Monday to Monday.) "Not a crumb," said Min, "To a mouse I'll be giving, For a mouse must spin To earn her living." So poor Mrs. Mouse and her three cross Aunts Nibble snow that rustles like gold wheat plants. And the miller's daughter Combs her locks, Like running water Those dove-soft flocks; And her mouth is sweet as a honey-flower cold But her heart is heavy as bags of gold. The shadow-mice said "We will line with down From those doves, our bed And our slippers and gown, For everything comes to the shadows at last If the spinning-wheel Time move slow or fast." |