To a Lady Knitting

Little woman, hourly sitting,

Something for a soldier knitting,

What in fancy can you see?

Many pictures come to me

Through the stitch that now you're making:

I behold a bullet breaking;

I can see some soldier lying

In that garment slowly dying,

And that very bit of thread

In your fingers, turns to red.

Gray to-day; perhaps to-morrow

Crimsoned by the blood of sorrow.

It may be some hero daring

Shall that very thing be wearing

When he ventures forth to give

Life that other men may live.

He may braver wield the saber

As a tribute to your labor,

And for that, which you have knitted,

Better for his task be fitted.

When the thread has left your finger,

Something of yourself may linger,

Something of your lovely beauty

May sustain him in his duty.

Some one's boy that was a baby

Soon shall wear it, and it may be

He will write and tell his mother

Of the kindness of another,

And her spirit shall caress you,

And her prayers at night shall bless you.

You may never know its story,

Cannot know the grief or glory

That are destined now and hover

Over him your wool shall cover,

Nor what spirit shall invade it

Once your gentle hands have made it.

Little woman, hourly sitting,

Something for a soldier knitting,

‘ Tis no common garb you're making,

These, no common pains you're taking.

Something lovely, holy, lingers

O'er the needles in your fingers

And with every stitch you're weaving

Something of yourself you're leaving.

From your gentle hands and tender

There may come a nation's splendor,

And from this, your simple duty,

Life may win a fairer beauty.