Friday, February 02, 2007

Silent Poetry Reading Day

I saw this mentioned at Not Plain Jane and I liked the idea. Here's my contribution to this silent poetry reading day, in honor of Brigid.


An old-time kitchen, an open door, Sunshine lying across the floor; A little maid, feet bare and brown, Cheeks like roses, a cotton gown, Rippling masses of shining hair, And a childish forehead smooth and fair.
The child is knitting. The open door Wooes her, tempts her, more and more. The sky is cloudless, the air is sweet And sadly restless the bare brown feet.. Still,' as she wishes her task were done, She counts the rounds off, one by one.
Higher yet mounts the sun or June; But one round more!___a joyous tune Ripples out from the childish lips, While swift and swifter the finger-tips Play out and in, till I hear her say, "Twenty rounds! I'm going to play!"
Up to the hedge where the sweet-brier blows, Down to the bank where the brooklet flows, Chasing the butterflies, watching the bees, Wading in clover up to her knees, Mocking the bobolinks; oh, what fun It is to be free when the task is done!
Years and years have glided away. The child is a woman, and threads of gray One by one creep into her hair, And I see the prints of the feet of care. Yet I like to watch tier. To-night she sits By her household fire, and as then she knits.
Swiftly the needles glance, and the thread Glides through her fingers, white and red. 'Tis a baby's stocking. To and fro And out and in as the needles go, She sings as she sang that day in June, But the low, soft strain is a nursery tune.
Closely beside her the baby lies, Slowly closing his sleepy eyes. Forward, backward, the cradle swings, Touched by her foot as she softly sings. And now in silence her watch she keeps; The song is hushed, for the baby sleeps.
Up from the green, through the twilight gray, Comes the shoats of a troop at play. Blue eyes, black eyes, golden curls - These are all hers___her boys and girls. Then wonder not at the prints of care, Or the silver threads in her braided hair.
Does she ever pine for the meadow brook, The sweet-brier hedge, the clover nook? When sweet winds woo, when smiles the sun, Does she ever wish that her task was done? Would you know? Then watch her where she sits Smiling dreamily, while she knits.

by Ellen P. Allerton.


Anonymous said...

Ahhh. That is lovely. Thank you for sharing.


Unknown said...

Oh, I'm glad you posted a poem! It's lovely!

Anonymous said...


Dave said...

Knitting... a life long labour of love! I think it safe to say that those who start knitting at such a tender age knite throughout the rest of their life. It was a lovely poem! :-)

P.S. I sometimes think that knitting is slowly becomming a lost art.

Violiknit said...

Beautiful poem! Made my day.

hakucho said...

Lovely poem :)