Dolly sits a-quilting by her mother,
stitch by stitch,
Gracious, how my pulses throb, how my
fingers itch,
While I note her dainty waist and her slender
hand,
As she matches this and that, she stitches
strand by strand.
And I long to tell her Life’s a quilt and I’m
a patch;
Love will do the stitching if she’ll only be my
match.
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