Some spokes from the rim are broken and gone,

And it stands there forsaken, neglected, alone;

It knows naught of language, but a story can tell

With a charm that for me time cannot dispel;

And often I climb the old attic stair

The love of my childhood with it to share,

And emotions possess me I cannot conceal

When fondly I gaze on the old spinning-wheel!

The distaff is worn and smooth with the touch

Of the now folded hands that used it so much;

And lingering there I clearly can trace

The sweet smile of love from a well-cherished face,

Which sheds round about it a halo divine

When thus I am kneeling at memory's shrine,

And hallows the thoughts which on the mind steal,

When up there alone with the old spinning-wheel!

'Tis then that I see her in saintly guise,

Through the fast-welling tears that come to my eyes—

A vision arrayed in raiment white

That beckons to me from the regions of light,

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