The artist and the loom unseen,
In textures soft as crepe de chine
Spring weaves her royal robe of green,
With grasses fringed and daisies dotted,
With furzy tufts like mosses fine
And showy clumps of eglantine,
With dainty shrub and creeping vine
Upon the verdant fabric knotted.
Oh, winter takes our love away
For ashen hues of sober gray!
So when the blooming, blushing May
Comes out in bodice, cap, and kirtle,
With arbutus her corsage laced,
And roses clinging to her waist,
We crown her charming queen of taste,
Her chaplet-wreath of modest myrtle.
For eighteen centuries and more
Her fairy hands have modeled o'er
The same habiliments she wore
At her primeval coronation;
And still the pattern exquisite,
For every age a perfect fit,
In every land the favorite,
Elicits world-wide admiration.
Gay butterflies of fashion, you
Who wear a suit a year or two,
Then agitate for something new,
Look at Regina, the patrician!
Her cleverness is more than gold
Who so transforms from fabrics old
The things a marvel to behold,
And glories in the exhibition.
Why worry for an overdress,
The acme of luxuriousness,
Beyond all envy to possess,
Renewed as oft as lambkin fleeces!
Why flutter round in pretty pique
To follow style's capricious freak,
To match pongee or moire antique,
And break your peace in hopeless pieces?
O mantua-maker, costumer,
And fair-robed wearer! study her
And imitate the conjurer
So prettily economizing,
Without demur, regret, or pout,
Who always puts the bright side out
And never frets at all about
The world's penchant for criticizing.
