Friday, June 6, 2008

Fitting Poem

My Mom put this poem on her andI found it fitting as my blog dissappeared never to be seen again in the same form.

If These Things Came To Passby W. Livingston Larned Published in 1920 by NEEDLECRAFT MAGAZINE. (I've read somewhere that in those days, women authors used their initial instead of their first names, because women weren't often otherwise published.) I'm printing Ms Larned's poem here for my knitting daughter, and for all women who have embraced fancy work in their own lives. Perhaps the long ago women described in this poem as, "We've been a-thinkin'" , were the women gathered together at a quilting bee--while we, who embrace fancy work in this age--"we've been a thinking " on a blogging bee.

What if all the ones who knit should never knit again?
What if busy needles stopped, the busy world around?
What if those who wear the weaves should ask for them in vain?
What if not in one wee home we heard that clicking sound?
Well, we've been a-thinkin' of the gratitude we owe--Love and tribute, mingled, to the women of the land.
Those who ply their needles, as the hours come and go--Patient, tireless workers of the head and of the hand!
What if all who sew with thread should stop their precious task?
What if pretty things they make should vanish from the earth?
It's a question, we who know the work they do, should ask;Lest we take for granted, what its sacrifice is worth.
Yes, we've been a-thinkin'--and it somehow seems to usPraise should go, full-measure, to the women of the thread--Stop a while to tell them--and encourage them--and thus
Give the humble hand that toils, the pride to forge ahead.
What if all the pretty things that garland life along--Scarfs and caps and baby-clothes and bits of clever lace--What if thoses should disappear, like echoes of a song.
Leaving only some machine to fill their sacred place! Well, we've been a-thinkin' and the sum of it is THIS:Woman's hand and heart can make the only things that last--Sentimental weaving, theirs--for every stitch a kiss;Love is shuffled into thread through all the magic past.
What if all the wee, soft garb of babyhood, should cease?Garments motherhood has made, in time with lullabies.
Some were made by lamplight with the troubled world at peace,Ah, we've been a-thinkin' of the ones who ply the art,The loving ones, the frugal ones--embroiderers of Fate,From cradle, onward to the grave, they play such noble partThat we should raise the work they do to some sublime estate.

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