  The artist and the loom unseen, In textures soft as crepe de chine Spring weaves her royal robe of green, With grasses fringed and daisies dotted, With furzy tufts like mosses fine And showy clumps of eglantine, With dainty shrub and creeping vine Upon the verdant fabric knotted. Oh, winter takes our love away For ashen hues of sober gray! So when the blooming, blushing May Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle, With arbutus her corsage laced, And roses clinging to her waist, We crown her charming queen of taste, Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle. For eighteen centuries and more Her fairy hands have modeled o'er The same habiliments she wore At her primeval coronation; And still the pattern exquisite, For every age a perfect fit, In every land the favorite, Elicits world-wide admiration. Who wear a suit a year or two, Then agitate for something new, Look at Regina, the patrician! Her cleverness is more than gold Who so transforms from fabrics old The things a marvel to behold, And glories in the exhibition. Why worry for an overdress, The acme of luxuriousness, Beyond all envy to possess, Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces! Why flutter round in pretty pique To follow style's capricious freak, To match pongee or moire antique, And break your peace in hopeless pieces? O mantua-maker, costumer, And fair-robed wearer! study her And imitate the conjurer So prettily economizing, Without demur, regret, or pout, Who always puts the bright side out And never frets at all about The world's penchant for criticizing. |
|
