The Lady With The Sewing-Machine
by Edith Sitwell
Across the fields as green as spinach,
Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich,
Stands a high house; if at all,
Spring comes like a Paisley shawl —
And youthfully ridiculous.
In each room the yellow sun
Shakes like a canary, run
On run, roulade, and watery trill —
Yellow, meaningless, and shrill.
Face as white as any clock’s,
Cased in parsley-dark curled locks —
All day long you sit and sew,
Stitch life down for fear it grow,
Stitch life down for fear we guess
At the hidden ugliness.
Dusty voice that throbs with heat,
Hoping with your steel-thin beat
To put stitches in my mind,
Make it tidy, make it kind,
You shall not: I’ll keep it free
Though you turn earth, sky and sea
To a patchwork quilt to keep
Your mind snug and warm in sleep!
About the Author:
Edith Sitwell (7 September 1887 – 9 December 1964) was a British poet and critic.