Break forth, break forth, O Sudbury town, <br /> And bid your yards be gay <br />Up all your gusty streets and down, <br /> For Lydia comes to-day! <br /> <br />I hear it on the wharves below; <br /> And if I buy or sell, <br />The good folk as they churchward go <br /> Have only this to tell. <br /> <br />My mother, just for love of her, <br /> Unlocks her carvëd drawers; <br />And springs of withered lavender <br /> Drop down upon the floors. <br /> <br />For Lydia’s bed must have the sheet <br /> Spun out of linen sheer, <br />And Lydia’s room be passing sweet <br /> With odors of last year. <br /> <br />The violet flags are out once more <br /> In lanes salt with the sea; <br />The thorn-bush at Saint Martin’s door <br /> Grows white for such as she. <br /> <br />So, Sudbury, bid your gardens blow, <br /> For Lydia comes to-day; <br />Of all the words that I do know, <br /> I have but this to say.<br /><br />Lizette Woodworth Reese<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lydia-3/
