The Maker Of My Lady's Lace

My lady's old point lace
That matches so her dainty grace,
And adds an airy charm to her
In tracery of gossamer.
Her lace has wrought a spell on me,
For lo, thereon, I gaze, and see
How Patience fair set out to weave
What love of beauty could conceive,
And spun, as fast her needles sped,
A fairy dream in flaxen thread;
And how the white ghosts of the flow'rs
Came trooping in the dreaming hours,
And danced in long and waving line
For her who wrought the fabric fine;
And how Dame Spider in the morn
Hung spangled webs from thorn to thorn,--
Along her pathway through the wold;
And how the lacework on the frosted pane
God's miracle on nights of cold
Was joy to her till she was fain
To hear the artist angels harps of gold,
Then smiling turn to work again.