THE SPINNER’S SONG.
Turn, busy wheel, turn, busy wheel,
And pile upon the circling reel
A thread as fine and free
As that the insect artist weaves,
In autumn mornings, 'midst the leaves,
Of yon old apple-tree,
The moss-grown apple-tree,
The dewy, filmy apple-tree!
Turn, busy wheel, turn swiftly round,
And blend with my wild song thy sound
Of peaceful industry;
Such sound as loads the summer breeze,
When, gathering their sweet store, the bees
Crowd yon broad linden-tree,
The flowery, shadowy linden-tree!
Mary R. Mitford.