Poems (Scudder)/The Bead Bag

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THE BEAD BAG
Now, on the canvas doth she stitch with care  Each glinting bead, some opal-shot, some rayed  With faint star-gold, with ivory inlaid, And some are touched with scarlet poignant, rare As when in June the great poinsettias flare  Against her garden wall. And some indeed,  Dusk-hued as fuchsia-bells. And thus, a bead Of light she sews in every minute square. Nor can I tell what pattern's in her mind— Of flower-plot bird-haunted, or the sheer,   Moon-frosted mountain-peaks, or tranquil stream With lilies rimmed—but of my life designed  On coarse and flimsy fabric, she my dear,   Fills every moment with the jewels of dream.

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