Two sat down in the morning time,
One to sing and one to spin.
All men listened the song sublime—
But no one listened the dull wheel’s din.
The singer sat in a pleasant nook,
And sang of a life that was fair and sweet,
While the spinner sat with a steadfast look,
Busily plying her hands and feet.
The singer sang on with a rose in her hair,
And all men listened her dulcet tone;
And the spinner spun on with a dull despair
Down in her heart as she sat alone.
But lo! on the morrow no one said
Aught of the singer or what she sang.
Men were saying: “Behold this thread,”
And loud the praise of the spinner rang.
The world has forgotten the singer’s name—
Her rose is faded, her songs are old;
But far o’er the ocean the spinner’s fame
Yet is blazoned in lines of gold.