Across The Room My Silent Love I Throw, Where You Sit Sewing In Bed By Candlelight, Your Young Stern Profile And Industrious Fingers Displayed Against The Blind In A Shadow-Show, To Dinda'S Grave Delight. The Needle Dips And Pokes, The Cheerful Thread Runs After, Follow-My-Leader Down The Seam: The Patchwork Pieces Cry For Joy Together, O Soon To Sit As A Crown On Dinda'S Head, Fulfilment Of Their Dream. Snippets And Odd Ends Folded By, Forgotten, With Camphor On A Top Shelf, Hard To Find, Now Wake To This Most Happy Resurrection, To Dinda Playing Toss With A Reel Of Cotton And Staring At The Blind. Dinda In Sing-Song Stretching Out One Hand Calls For The Playthings; Mother Does Not Hear: Her Mind Sails Far Away On A Patchwork Ocean, And All The World Must Wait Till She Touches Land; So Dinda Cries In Fear, Then Mother Turns, Laughing Like A Young Fairy, And Dinda Smiles To See Her Look So Kind, Calls Out Again For Playthings, Playthings, Playthings; And Now The Shadows Make An Umbrian Mary Adoring, On The Blind.