Old Lace

If you could speak, old lace, Of time and deed and place, What stories we should hear Of days long past or near. How heads bent low in thought, While patient fingers wrought In intricate design, Your pattern bold and fine.

How eyes gave out, and age Picked up youth’s scornful gage And in your meshes wove The mark of one who strove, Till she was vanquished sore, And saw, and wove no more.

If you could speak, old lace, Of forms you helped to grace, What stories you could tell Of bride and wedding bell; Of old loves and of new— Of false loves and of true; Of joys life may retain, Though sad hearts break in pain.