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The Weaver-Women of Sluck

From native home, from native tillage
To the lord's court, for beauty's sake,
Luckless girls taken from their village,
Girdles of gold to weave and make.
Long hours of toiling they endeavour,
Forgetful of their girlish dreams,
Labour at the board weaving ever,
Where the Persian pattern gleams.
Outside the walls, the smiling tillage,
The blue sky gleams beyond the pane,
And thoughts go wandering, willy-nilly,
There where the spring's in flower again,
There by the rye, in the bright distance,
The cornflowers shine with azure still,
And waves of chilly silver glisten
Where rivers gush between the hills;
Edge of an oak-wood, dark in verdure...
And hands, forgetful at the loom,
Neglecting the design of Persia,
Weave in the native cornflower bloom.

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