Three Little Women

There were three little women, Each fair in the face, And their laughter, like music, Filled all the green place, As they sat knitting talk with the Threads of their lace.

Of the winds in the tree-tops, The flowers in the glen,— The birds, the brown robin, The wood-dove, the wren,— They talked, but their thoughts were Of three little men!

The sea lay before them, With ships going by; Behind them the hills shone, So grand and so high; And above them, blue beautiful Patches of sky.

But they felt not the sweetness That smiled from the lea, And they knew not the way of The wind through the tree; And they saw not the sea, When they looked at the sea!

The wood-dove tapped note of the storm, The shy wren Twittered fearful, and low Hung the mist o’er the fen, But all that they thought of Was three little men!

The wind rose, the clouds gathered, Mass upon mass, The sun drew his long lines Of light from the grass,— Alas! for the three little Women, alas!

Fast home ran the robin, Fast home flew the wren; The blacksnake led all his Black sons to the fen, That lay ’twixt the three Little women and men.

The sky was all over One horrible frown; The rain from the hill-tops In torrents dashed down, The three little short-sighted Women to drown.

They died: pray their watery Graves may atone For their folly, in trusting To see things alone Through the eyes of the Three little men,—not their own.