Dost thou shape her true-love vesture, sewing

with a golden thread?
Prithee, brother artist, speed me
With a little of thy skill.
For I fear thou dost exceed me,
And my labor shows but ill.
Yet — oh, shame if thy seam parteth, while my dull thread holdeth still!

So I praise a shining treasure,
If no nearer than a star.
So I steal a bitter pleasure,
Watching weddings from afar.
But before the little seamstress long and dim the pathways are.

Nay ! my robin is turned raven,
And his wings were feathered wrong.
Certes, he is but a craven,
Who would sing me such a song.
I will run again and seek him. I will search the lane along.

I may find my fate's redressing ;
I may meet a crooked witch,
Or a statue, white with blessing,
Wandered from its Roman niche,
Or a folded bud to blossom even while I sit and stitch.