KNITTING SOCKS The Boston Transcript reprinted the following poem in 1917, just as it appeared in that paper November 27, 1861.
CLICK, click! how the needles go
Through the busy fingers, to and fro–
With no bright colors of berlin wool,
Delicate hands today are full:
Only a yarn of deep, dull blue,
Socks for the feet of the brave and true.
Yet click, click, how the needles go,
‘Tis a power within that nerves them so.
In the sunny hours of the bright spring day,
And still in the night time far away.
Maiden, mother, grandame sit
Earnest and thoughtful while they knit.
Many the silent prayers they pray,
Many the tear drops brushed away.
While busy on the needles go,
Widen and narrow, heel and toe.
The grandame thinks with a thrill of pride
How her mother knit and spun beside
For that patriot band in olden days
Who died the Stars and Stripes to raise–
Now she in turn knits for the brave
Who’d die that glorious flag to save.
She is glad, she says, ”the boys” have gone,
‘Tis just as their grandfathers would have done.
But she heaves a sigh and the tears will start,
For “the boys” were the pride of grandame’s heart.
The mother’s look is calm and high,
God only hears her soul’s deep cry–
In Freedom’s name, at Freedom’s call,
She gave her sons–in them her all.
The maiden’s cheek wears a paler shade.
But the light in her eyes is undismayed.
Faith and hope give strength to her sight,
She sees a red dawn after the night.
Oh, soldiers brave, will it brighten the day,
And shorten the march on the weary way,
To know that at home the loving and true
Are knitting and hoping and praying for your
Soft are the voices when speaking your name,
Proud are their glories when hearing your fame.
And the gladdest hour in their lives will be
When they greet you after the victory.
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Missing Socks
I used to have socks but alas they’re no more
though I peered in the cupboards and I searched on the floor
I looked in the freezer and under the stairs
in the end I presumed they’d been taken by Bears
I phoned London Zoo and demanded they see
that my socks weren’t being worn by a chimp or a bee
They checked all their charges and said there’s no truth
in the thought of my socks being on claw or on hoof
I called the Police in to ransack my house
but their search unearthed nothing not even a mouse
I gave them permission to question my clothes
but the answers they got were that “nobody knows”
And lo as I type this I’ve learned nothing new
my socks are still missing and my toes have turned blue
My ankles are chilled and my knees miss the heat
so tonight spare a thought for my poor little feet.
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Ode to a Second Sock (beware – bad poetry ahead)
Oh second sock I do despise
Your each and every stitch.
Your never-ending progress
Is giving me a twitch.
Why can’t you be exciting,
Like your brother was before?
Instead you lie and mock me
In a heap upon the floor.
One lone sock is worthless
And it would never do
To let one foot get blue with cold
Inside a cruel shoe.
Evil mate of footware fine
I’m sure you’ve made me ill!
I wish this syndrome could be cured
With lotion, shot or pill.
I hear this sickness also comes
When knitters make a mitt
I guess to treat it I should stop
Composing poems and KNIT!
My thanks to Renee in Ontario, Canada for posting these poems on the Socks For Soldiers group.
