Hazel Hall

LENGTHS of lawn, and dimities,

Dainty, smooth and cool—

In their possibilities

Beautiful—

Stretch beneath my hand in sheets,

Fragrant from the loom,

Like a field of marguerites

All in bloom.

Where my scissors’ footsteps pass

Fluttering furrows break,

As the scythe trails through the grass

Its deep wake.

All my stitches, running fleet,

Cannot match the tread

Of my thoughts whose wingèd feet

Race ahead.

They are gathering imagery

Out of time and space,

That a needle’s artistry

May embrace.

Hints of dawn and thin blue sky,

Breaths the breezes bear,

Wispy-waspy things that fly

In warm air.

Bolts of dimity I take,

Muslin smooth and cool;

These my fingers love to make

Beautiful.

Crowds are passing on the street—

Tuck on tuck and pleat on pleat

Of people hurrying along,

Homeward bound—throng on throng.

Their work is finished, mine undone;

Still my stitches run.

I cannot watch the people go—

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;

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

Where my stitches run.