THE CHRISTENING - Sara Teasdale Poems


Poems » sara teasdale » the christening


In vain we broider cap and cloak, and fold
    The long robe, white and rare;
In vain we serve on dishes of red gold,
    Perhaps, the rich man's fare;
In vain we bid the fabled folk who bring
    All gifts the world holds sweet:
This one, forsooth, shall give the child to sing;
    To move like music this shall charm its feet;
    This help the cheek to blush, the heart to beat.

Unto the christening there shall surely come
    The Uninvited Guest,
The evil mother, weird and wise, with some
    Sad purpose in her breast.
Yea and though every spinning-wheel be stilled
    In all the country round,
Behold, her prophecy must be fulfilled;
    The turret with the spindle will be found,
    And the white hand will reach and take the wound.