Knitting/sock themed poetry--
Ballou's Monthly Magazine, 1862
The Dream of the Knitter.
Loop by loop, loop by loop,
The white hands knit;
While over the eyes the fair lids droop,
And fancies flit
Wondrous and wild,
As dreams of a child—
And the soldier’s sock grows loop by loop.
Who is the one of the soldier troop
For whom she works?
And as o’er a lost loop the slight shoulders stoop,
In her heart there lurks
A longing to see
What the man may be
Who shall wear the stout sock growing loop by loop.
Is he weak and loose-jointed, with squint, halt and stoop?—
And a scowl comes unbid:
Or tall and erect, and like eagle’s sweep
The eyes flash ‘neath the lid?
And the blue eyes smiled
In their dreaming wild,
And the solder’s sock grew loop by loop.
And the well-known room, as the fire-flames droop,
The shadow drapes;
To her dreaming eyes the dark forms group
Into fearful shapes,
And all around
Is a camping-ground—
And slower the sock grows loop by loop.
Stretched on the ground lies a gallant group,
Hardy and brave:
Foremost of all the numberless troop
Who our land shall save;
And the young girl wept
While the soldiers slept,
And the sock ceased growing loop by loop.
For the men have a haggard and hungry droop,
In their deep, fierce sleep;
And young and slight is one of the troop,
And dark brows keep
Watch over the eyes
Were the sleeping soul lies—
And the socks from his feet are worn loop by loop.
Ah, the merry blue eyes, that o’er the work stoop,
Are bewildered now!
Her full sweet lips have a sadder droop,
There’s a cloud on her brow.
Yet she merrily smiled.
As willful and wild
A broad spot of red she knits loop by loop.
Perhaps in the swelling years’ rapid swoop,
She would hear from the mark.
Who shall say if the girl was a foolish dupe
Of her dream in the dark?
The web of our life,
Spite of doubting and strife,
The Future will knit for us loop by loop.
The Socks That I Knit.
By “A. I.”
‘Tis a
clear twilight time in November,
With the
day passing on into night;
In the
west fades the glow of the evening,
In the
east shines the moon, cold and white;
The trees,
like the nation, have parted
With
summer’s soft riches at length;
But now,
see the wonderful structure,
So glorious in beauty and strength!
The fire-light flashes and flickers
On low white-washed ceiling and wall,
And plays on my poor tired fingers,
At work with their gray woollen ball.
It glimmers and shines on my needles,
And lights up the stocking I knit;
It’s a sock for some volunteer soldier,--
I hope that the stocking will fit!
I suppose it will suit in dimensions,
For feet of all sizes have marched
To go to the help of the nation,--
Long, short, and flat-footed, and arched.
And the yarn is from old Massachusetts,
And the shape is an excellent hit;
So I think it may do good to some one,
This gray woolen sock that I knit.
I hope it will comfort no traitor,
But one that is loyal and true,--
Some brave boy who’s left home and fortunes,
To fight for the Red, White, and Blue.
To his foot, O sock, be thy softest!
And never wear out, nor give way;
There’s none to do darning and mending
Down there in the midst of the fray.
Protect him from cold and from dampness,
And soften the hard leather shoe;
And on the long arch or night watches,
Do all that a stocking can do.
But stocking, I charge thee! return not,
Except with thy duty performed;
Till the season is turned into summer,
And the last rebel stronghold is stormed.
Let no knitting of mine be surrendered
On a soldier afraid of the fight,
Or be dropped by the way, or borne homeward,
In some needless and panic-stuck flight.
The swift-rolling ball in my basket,
Like destiny seems to unwind;
One vision comes up as I widen,
And one as I narrow and bind.
Shall my sock be sent off to Missouri,
For some of our brave Western boys?
Or down to Port Royal and Beaufort,
Where Sherman is making a noise?
Or off to the old sea-girt Fortress,--
Or where, on Potomac’s bright shore,
There are regiments drilling and waiting
For the word to go forward once more.
Perchance
this soft fabric, when finished,
May
cherish and invalid’s foot;
Or, in
some wild scamper of horsemen,
Lie hid in
a cavalry boot.
Perchance
it may be taken prisoner,
And down
into Rebeldom borne;
Peradventure—alas!
the poor stocking—
It may by
some rebel be worn!
It may be
cut through with a sabre;
Its whit
top-woe’s me!—be dyed red,
And on the
cold field of a battle
May cover
the foot of the dead.
How
weirdly the needles are working—
Click, click—as
they knit up the toe:
O
stocking, you look to me ghostly,
In this
question of where you shall go.
I see them
flash down like a whirlwind,
Their long
sabres gleaming on high;
the Stars
and Stripes waving among them,
“For the
Nation!” their fierce battle-cry;
O see them
all pallid and drooping,
In
sickness, in wounds, or in death;
And yet
the faint pulses are loyal,
And yet
Freedom nerves every breath.
The
firelight wavers and trembles
With its
shadowy, fitful glance,
Till the
very coals and the ashes
Seem to
look at me half askance;
And I in the
chimney corner
In silence
and solitude sit,
And work
up and army of fancies,
In the
volunteer sock that I knit.
It is all
full of prayers and good wishes;
Stitch by
stitch, as I knit, they’re wrought in;
In my
heart burns the love of the Union—
On my
breast is a Stars-and Stripes pin;
So if
ever sock could be loyal,
And fro a
brave volunteer fit,
As well as
soft, warm and elastic,
It must be
this sock that I knit.
Ah, if I
could only make blankets!
They
should be of the warmest and best;
No
night-wind should trouble the soldier,
While my
blankets lay light on his breast.
And I wish
that my hands could work faster,
And for
every gray sock could knit two,--
You men
who go forth to the battle
Don’t know
what the women would do.
And
perchance—who can tell?-the young soldier
May turn
out a hero, and fight
His way to
the heart of the Nation,
As well as
to glory’s grand height;
And then,
when his camp-chest is treasured,
And his
uniform hung up with care,
Like
Washington’s guarded and cherished,
My gray
woolen sock may be there!
November,
1861
Lowell Daily Citizen and News, (Lowell, MA) Tuesday, January 14, 1862
We, and our “Knitting-Work”
By Laura Elmer.
Nimbly
forward, knitting-pins,
When ye
lag kind conscience dins;
Round and
round-hast to the heel-
Click and
clatter, glittering steel.
First the
heel, and then the toe,
Shining
bodkins quickly go.
O ye heed
not, but we heed
All the
good that’s in your speed.
Loop the
pliant thread of wool,
In and out,
each needleful;
“Slip-and-bind”
the flexile string,
Till
“toe’d off” ‘s the elastic thing.
So its
mate-then click along,
Till we
have a knitted throng;
“Pillow-case
full” of the hose,
Is the
rule, each woman knows.
Off
now-toward your mission flit-
“Tis for
loyal feet ye’re knit;
Keep them
snug and warm each day-
We’ve no
fear they’ll run away.
Stay,
there’s one thing-just suppose
Rebels
steal ye, fleecy hose!
Dare not
shield their toes from damps-
‘Flame
their soles, and coax the cramps.
Quick they’ll
swear-but be ye sure,
‘Leglance
‘tisn’t – ‘two’n enquire!
Snap your
thread and gape in holes-
Ho! their
corns and swell their soles!
Dare not
give to rebles aid-
For their comfort ye’re not made;
Let all
traitors barefoot flee-
Be unto
them P.P.C.
N.Y. Evening Post.
Dwight’s Journal of Music
Prologue
To the Performances of the
Belmont Theatrical Company, at Chickering’s Hall, in aid of the Volunteers,
February 11th, 12th, 13th and 14th, 1862
A
twelvemonth since, the lengthened nights to cheer,
Our actors
raised their mimic pageant here,
And, while
fair Peace in listless leisure smiled,
Their
masquerade the lingering hours beguiled.
But now,
when festal lights are few and dim,
And drum
and trumpet swell the battle hymn,
Now that
the sullen war cloud, dark and dun,
Hangs o’er
the birthplace of our Washington,
And mad
rebellion pours its angry wave
Hard by
the hallowed precincts of his grave;
When our
beleaguered Capital is set
With hedge
of battery and of bayonet,
The
thoughtful or the stern perchance may ask,
Why, at
such season, try our trivial task?
A question
pertinent and just, ‘tis true,
But still
the subject has another view.
The
bleakest climate has its summer hours,
When
autumn’s fruits are heralded by flowers;
At epochs
when long faces are in vogue
Austerity
oft cloaks the clever rogue,
But
breathing-space for laughter ever finds
Apology in
philosophic minds;
And even
when driven by Misfortune’s goad,
Courage
and Pluck will whistle on the road.
Who is
there, that reads history, who blames
That
warring Greece still kept her Isthmian Games?
And
earlier still, no doubt the somber ark
Heard in
its cabin many a jocund lark;
And very
like the cousins there together
Got up
charades on deck in pleasant weather.
Indeed,
all history shows there’s no affinity
‘Twixt
Wisdom’s emblems and its fair divinity;
For
Chaucer never chronicled the owl,-
Minerva’s
favorite,-as a cheerful fowl.
But
there’s no need of argument-you know
The
proverb of the always-bended how;
And though
our hearts are at the Tournament
For whose
fierce lists our gallant beaux are bent,
We want
some little merriment-like froth-
To show
the yeast is working at the North.
The gay
Germania’s strains resound no more
Where
twinkling footsteps circle round the floor;
We’ve no
more jolly rides in sleigh or cutter;
Papanti,
too has lost his “Bread and Butter;
Logan and
Dalton show their ebon faces
No longer
‘mid the crowd of ball-room Graces;
And our
Champagne-domestic make or foreign-
Pops only
for the prisoners at Fort Warren.
At whatsoever
door the patriot knocks
He finds
his sister patriot knitting socks,
While, on
the floor, the scientific kittens
Study
cat-hop-trios with one-fingered mittens.
All
right—for if the brave are making breaches
It is but
fair the fair should take some stitches;
But it is
right, too, we put bound and measure
As well to
knitting stockings as to pleasure,
And that
some festive interlude should vary
The
weightier labors of the sanitary,
Lest we,
like misers in their quest of wealth-
Fall
victims to an over-zeal for health.
Why, even
in the cold Crimean trenches,
The
soldiers had their stage and critic’s benches,
And,
writers tell us, each heroic lad
Fought
better for the jollity he had.
Indeed, in
with or war, those gallant Zouaves
Disdained
the doing anything by halves.
As there, the elastic thread and spirit
light
Were good
for honest work and honest fight,
So our young heroes show that merry dancers
Work none
the worse for their Quadrille and “Lancers,”
For we
well know that Burnside, Banks and Sherman,
Recruited
their best soldiers fro “The German.”
But my
Muse hurries me too far and fast;
I’m but
the oyster of to-night’s repast;
And in
your eyes-the stars of our astrology-
I read a
dispensation from apology.
Though
Shakespeare says the world’s a stage, or stages,
We trust
that our seven acts may not seem
ages;
And that
you’ll hold our pastime no abuse,
But see
its healthful and its serious use.
However
stocks and manufactures are,
‘Twill
serve to keep our spirits up at par;
And your
rich bounty goes to swell the store
That
cheers the exile on Potomac’s shore.
There,
while the watch-fires flicker on his tent,
Through
this long winter of his banishment,
Your
thoughtful deeds and offices of love
Shall
nestle in his bosom like the dove;
And while
he lingers far from social charms
His heart
shall bless his fair allies in arms,
Each of
whom, here, in loyal measure, shares
His daily
toil, his bravery and his cares;
Whose
prayers make musical the silent night,
That
Heaven guard him that guards his Country’s right;
Who, when
in Gods’ good time, the day shall come
Which
turns his footsteps toward his Northern home,
When,
‘neath Heaven’s rainbow for triumphal arch,
Her
listening ear shall catch his homeward march,
Shall
stand like beckoning angel at the door
To which
his longing feet return once more,
Adorn with
festal pomp her halls and bowers,
And
welcome back her Knight with smiles and flowers.
The Daily Cleveland Herald, Cleveland, OH Saturday, March 15, 1862
To My Knitting Work.
The
following lines were found by and officer of the 42d Ohio, in the toe of a
stocking received from a kind friend in Ashland:
Say, tiny
stitches, dost thou know
What
fancies thou art weaving?
And dost
thou see, as on you flow,
The bosom
o’er thee heaving?
Ah! no,
thou canst not know or tell
That sighs
and tears embalm thee,
And
prayers that neither shot nor shell
From
Marshall, ere may harm thee.
And,
little stitches, dost thou know
Thy
destiny is – Glory?
I pray the
feet on which you go,
May bring
me back their story.
And if, where’ere
you press the sod,
The war
cry ring still louder
Oh tell
thy wearer – Trust in God,
With one
eye on the powder.
And
comfort then his toes at night,
His heart
needs no warm cover,
But shield
his head, ye angels bright,
And if
perchance, our country’s good
Demands
his [immotation ?],
then build
the alter, bring the wood,
“God will
provide the’ [obiaties].”
The March
[?] , from her [asure] home,
Smiles
through yon dappled awning;
Oh does
this new-born Spring time [?]
With Peace
for her adoring?
Father, we
own Thy judgments just,
Our native
land deliver
Henceforth
the Gift is not our trust,
We’ll
worship first, the Giver.
Ashland,
O. March 16th, 1862
The Ladies’ Repository, 1862
Helen and Mary, by Josephine
Pollard
“Nonsense,
Helen: there’s no reason
Why you
should remain alone;
Nothing in
the world to hinder—
Every
moment is your own:
You can
lounge, or walk, or visit,
Taking
comfort as you go;
Dome and
see me often, Helen,
I am
seldom out, you know.
Household
cares are so engrossing,
And my children
are so small,
I have
very little freedom,
Scarcely
time to make a call;
But
there’s nothing to prevent you,
“T is no
task to grant this boon;
Come and
see me often Helen,
come and
see me very soon.”
“True, no
children cling around me,
Claiming
mother’s love and care;
Though no
household cares distract me,
Duties
spring up every-where.
In such
times as these, dear Mary,
Want at
many a threshold stands;
There is
work to do in plenty—
Could I
sit with folded hands?
Those
brave men who have gone forward
For our
country’s flag to fight,
Need warm
garments to protect them
Through
the wintery day and night.
Women’s
hands must labor for them;
Women’s
hearts must send good cheer
To the
homes where widows languish;
Soothing
many an orphan’s tear.
Mary, I’ve
no heart to visit;
I’m not
idle, though you say
I have
plenty leisure moments.
Duties
spring up every day.
Here are
soldiers’ socks to finish;
Coverlets
to baste and tack;
Slippers
waiting for the binding;
Shirts and
blanket yet to pack.
While brave
men have left their fireside
To endure
want, woe, and pain,
We should
practice self-denial
Till sweet
Peace returns again.
When these
troublous times are over,
When with
palms we deck the brow
I will
come and see you, Mary,
Every day;
but, O, not now.”
