 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
345
A VOLUNTEER STOCKING
With fingers thoroughbred, rosy and fair,
She was knitting a stocking for soldiers to wear.
She was knitting a stocking for soldiers to wear.
But I thought, as through intricate loop and braid
Those fingers so willfully flashed and played,
Not alone did they catch in their weaving play
A woolen thread nor a filament gray,
But some subtler fancies—as maidens best know
Were knit in that stocking from heel to toe.
Those fingers so willfully flashed and played,
Not alone did they catch in their weaving play
A woolen thread nor a filament gray,
But some subtler fancies—as maidens best know
Were knit in that stocking from heel to toe.
Those sweet, tangled fancies, that women so long
Have cherished in sorrow, oppression, and wrong;
Those poetic impulses, waiting the warm
Grasp of Faith but to shapen and give them a form.
Thus Valor and Trust, from a chaos so full,
Here mixed with the gathering meshes of wool,
To be marshaled more firm, as with resolute chin
And half-pouting lip she knit them all in,
Till the flash of the needle's leaping light
Gleamed like those lances, when knight to knight,
In the olden joust of Chivalry's might
(Thought I), did battle for Love and Right.
Have cherished in sorrow, oppression, and wrong;
Those poetic impulses, waiting the warm
Grasp of Faith but to shapen and give them a form.
Thus Valor and Trust, from a chaos so full,
Here mixed with the gathering meshes of wool,
To be marshaled more firm, as with resolute chin
And half-pouting lip she knit them all in,
Till the flash of the needle's leaping light
Gleamed like those lances, when knight to knight,
In the olden joust of Chivalry's might
(Thought I), did battle for Love and Right.
So she sate, with a drooping head,
Knitting,—but not with a single thread,—
Till under the long lash something grew
Misty and faint as the mountain's blue,
Then dropped—
Like a flash it was gone
Caught and absorbed in the woven yarn,
A tear,—just to show that the stocking was done,—
And Pity had finished what Trust had begun.
Knitting,—but not with a single thread,—
Till under the long lash something grew
Misty and faint as the mountain's blue,
Then dropped—
Like a flash it was gone
Caught and absorbed in the woven yarn,
346
And Pity had finished what Trust had begun.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |