MY COVERLID 



Your coverlid is homespun, 



Warp and woof of loom; 

 White tassels are the flowers 



Shorn before they bloom; 

 A clipped fringe for a border. 



Primness in each fold. 

 Linen, smooth, immaculate. 



It turns a body cold. 



But mine is bright in springtime. 



Stitched with thread of green. 

 Slim needle buds come pricking 



Through its satin sheen. 

 Adorned with lace of cobweb 



Woven in the rain, 

 Is it not a coverlid 



To make a body vain? 



In summer it is motley 

 Patched with every hue, 



[97] 



