Stickning

Ända tills i dag har jag varit ovetandes om vem Mary Eliza Perin Tucker Lambert var, och jag hade inte tänkt lägga till ännu ett poem som handlade om krig. Så jag klickade mig snabbt förbi Mary, men blev ändå lite nyfiken på vilket krig hon skrev om — det finns ju tyvärr en del att välja på — det finns inte jättemycket att läsa om Mary, och vilket krig det gällde står inte heller någonstans, men eftersom hon levde mellan 1838 och 1896, är det väl bara inbördeskriget som kan komma ifråga. När jag väl börjat läsa om Mary kunde jag inte släppa henne och hennes vardagsnära dikter, det verkar som hon var en tilltagsen tjej med mycket framåtanda. Här har hon skrivit en kort levnadsbeskrivning.

Interior with Woman Knitting, ca. 1917 

Issachar Ber Ryback 

Knitting
My muse is in the sulks to-day, 

I've tried in vain to find 

A subject fit for rhyme and song, 

 Just suited to my mind. 

I called last night upon the stars, 

To-day upon the sun, — 

 My muse would leave me in the lurch, 

With just a line begun. 

I tried to work, I tried to sing, 

And then I tried to play; 

And then I took my knitting up, 

To while the time away. 

And then the flashes of quick thought, 

To while the time away. 

And then the flashes of quick thought, 

With bliss thrilled all my soul; 

With every stitch did fancy's hand, 

A saddening page unroll. 

The dullest of the dullest work, 

 So tiresome, and so slow! 

To knit, and knit, the live-long day, 

And still small increase show. 

But as I knit, a fairy web 

My brain wore in its dreaming, 

And in each stitch my fancy saw 

Some bright poetic gleaming. 

And stitch by stitch the work goes on, 

For some proud soldier brave, 

Who may, perchance, these stitches wear, 

Into a soldier's grave. 

Far away from mother, sister — 

Aye, from wife and daughter true, 

With their feet all bare and bleeding, 

And their hearts all bleeding too. 

Now, perchance, one may be lying 

Wounded on the cold earth damp, 

While so feebly, faintly burning, 

Is the last light of life's lamp. 

Bright visions of the happy past, 

Move slow before his eyes — 

And then the mocking present comes 

To taunt him ere he dies. 

The glorious future once so bright, 

To him has now grown dim — 

Alone he dies, while song-birds sing 

The solemn funeral hymn. 

Ah! in some distant cottage, 

His dear wife knitting there, 

Is sending with each stitch she takes, 

An earnest, heartfelt prayer. 

She little thinks, as, in her pride, 

She rolls the finished pair, 

that his loved feet are cold and still, 

And his body free from care. 

God grant that in the future, 

The bliss may be in store, 

That they may meet in heaven above — 

Aye, meet to part no more. 

Fond mother, cease your knitting, 

For your boy with curly hair 

Is dead upon the battle-field, 

So cold, and, oh, so fair! 

Poor child, why did they send him — 

Too young, and yet so brave, 

To be a bullet's shining mark, 

And fill a soldier's grave? 

Bend gently o'er him, comrades — 

Drop on his curls a tear — 

Write on his rude-carved head board, 

A mother's pride sleeps here. 

A mother's joy-her treasure, 

A widow's only son, 

Has gained the life eternal. — 

Death's victory is won. 

Around his noble brow is twined 

The laurel wreath of fame, — 

The mother's darling boy has now 

A never-dying name. 

I will not say, I will not think, 

Knitting is dull, again; 

For, from steel needles sparkling thoughts 

Will fly into the brain.  

                 Mary Eliza Perine Tucker Lambert