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I LENGTHS of lawn, and dimities, | |
| Dainty, smooth and cool— | |
| In their possibilities | |
| Beautiful— | |
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| Stretch beneath my hand in sheets, | 5 |
| Fragrant from the loom, | |
| Like a field of marguerites | |
| All in bloom. | |
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| Where my scissors’ footsteps pass | |
| Fluttering furrows break, | 10 |
| As the scythe trails through the grass | |
| Its deep wake. | |
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| All my stitches, running fleet, | |
| Cannot match the tread | |
| Of my thoughts whose wingèd feet | 15 |
| Race ahead. | |
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| They are gathering imagery | |
| Out of time and space, | |
| That a needle’s artistry | |
| May embrace. | 20 |
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| Hints of dawn and thin blue sky, | |
| Breaths the breezes bear, | |
| Wispy-waspy things that fly | |
| In warm air. | |
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| Bolts of dimity I take, | 25 |
| Muslin smooth and cool; | |
| These my fingers love to make | |
| Beautiful. | |
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II Crowds are passing on the street— | |
| Tuck on tuck and pleat on pleat | 30 |
| Of people hurrying along, | |
| Homeward bound—throng on throng. | |
| Their work is finished, mine undone; | |
| Still my stitches run. | |
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| I cannot watch the people go— | 35 |
| Fold on fold and row on row; | |
| But I know each pulsing tread | |
| Is spinning out a life’s fine thread; | |
| I know the stars, like needle-gleams, | |
| Are pricking through the sky’s wide seams; | 40 |
| And soon the moon must show its face, | |
| Like a pearl button stitched in place. | |
| All the long hours of the day | |
| Are finished now and folded away; | |
| Yet the hem is still undone | 45 |
| Where my stitches run. | |
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