O Great Golden Head Lie In My Lap'

O great golden head lie in my lap,
Sweet, sweet, lie there.
Sleep and I'll watch thee lest evil behap.
Sweet, sweet and fair.
O great golden head lie on my breast,
Sleep, sleep thou there,
Who in thy beauty hast stolen my rest,
Sweet, sweet and fair.

My darling lies down in her soft white bed,
And she laughs at me.
Her laughter has flushed her pale cheeks with red.
Her eyes dance with glee.
My darling lies close in her warm white bed,
And she will not rise.
I will shower kisses down on her sleepyhead
Till she close her eyes.
Gioja's no happier fresh from the South.
But my kisses free
Will straiten the curves of this teasing mouth,
If it laughs at me.

My Window Pane Is Broken

My window pane is broken
Just a bit
Where the small curtain doesn't
Cover it.
And in the afternoon
I like to lie
And watch the pepper tree
Against the sky.
Pink berries and blue sky
And leaves and sun
Are very fair to rest
One's eyes upon.
And my tired feet are resting
On the bed
And there's a pillow under
My tired head.
Parties and balls and books
I know are best
But when I've finished work
I like to rest.

Up In My Room On My Unmade Bed

Up in my room on my unmade bed
I sat and read.
There was work waiting for me below.
I didn't go.
For in my little green room the song
Flickered along.
If the singer had seen the way it fared
She would have stared,
Have wondered and stared at me who read
With tumbled bed,
Wide-open window, wide-open door,
Books on the floor.
Hers was a disciplined, comely, wise
Christina-guise.
But what's the hell of a mess to me
When I am free
And wind blows in and a delicate song
Flickers along.

Work-Girls' Holiday

A lady has a thousand ways
Of doing nothing all her days,
And so she thinks that they're well spent,
She can be idle and content.
But when I have a holiday
I have forgotten how to play.
I could rest idly under trees
When there's some sun or little breeze
Or if the wind should prove too strong
Could lie in bed the whole day long.
But any leisured girl would say
That that was waste of holiday.
Perhaps if I had weeks to spend
In doing nothing without end,
I might learn better how to shirk
And never want to go to work.

I Must Be Dreaming Through The Days

I must be dreaming through the days
And see the world with childish eyes
If I'd go singing all my life
And my songs be wise
And in the kitchen or the house
Must wonder at the sights I see.
And I must hear the throb and hum
That moves to song in factory.
So much in life remains unsung,
And so much more than love is sweet.
I'd like a song of kitchenmaids
With steady fingers and swift feet.
And I could sing about the rest
That breaks upon a woman's day
When dinner's over and she lies
Upon her bed to dream and pray
Until the children come from school
And all her evening work begins.
There's more in life than tragic love
And all the storied, splendid sins.