Lydia

Break forth, break forth, O Sudbury town, And bid your yards be gay Up all your gusty streets and down, For Lydia comes to-day! I hear it on the wharves below; And if I buy or sell, The good folk as they churchward go Have only this to tell. My mother, just for love of her, Unlocks her carvëd drawers; And springs of withered lavender Drop down upon the floors. For Lydia’s bed must have the sheet Spun out of linen sheer, And Lydia’s room be passing sweet With odors of last year. The violet flags are out once more In lanes salt with the sea; The thorn-bush at Saint Martin’s door Grows white for such as she. So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow, For Lydia comes to-day; Of all the words that I do know, I have but this to say.