THE BABY SORCERESS
by: Thomas Wentworth Higginson
- Y baby sits
beneath the tall elm-trees,
- A wreath of tangled ribbons in her hands;
- She twines and twists the many-coloured strands,--
- A little sorceress, weaving destinies.
- Now the pure white she grasps; now naught can please
- But strips of crimson, lurid as the brands
- From passion's fires; or yellow, like the sands
- That lend soft netting to the azure seas.
- And so with sweet, incessant toil she fills
- A summer hour, still following fancies new,
- Till through my heart a sudden terror thrills
- Lest, as she weaves, her aimless choice prove true.
- Thank God! our Fates proceed not from our wills:
- The Power that spins the thread shall blend the hue.
MORE POEMS BY THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON
"The Baby Sorceress" is
reprinted from American Sonnets. Ed. William Sharp. London:
Walter Scott, 1889.