I've been reading a book about sewing,
And I look at my useless hands,
They know nothing at all of a needle's going
Over and under through linen strands.

My hands are a foolish sort of toys,
They can hold a pencil, that is all they know.
Now, reading, they would aspire to the joys
Of setting a thousand little stitches in a row.

A row of neat little stitches in some particularly fine cloth.
Cloth is perhaps sweeter than its grandchild — paper.
But these clumsy hands of mine are worth
Whatever value there is in a sky-scraper
Hewn of cold clouds, airily morticed with grey vapour.

Nainsooks, linen-lawns and cambrics,
Even mercerized cotton has an agreeable style
In reading. My hands build towers of flame-bricks,
But I burn in their fire all the while.

Imbroidering monograms is a cool pursuit, and stitching
A monotonous thing like a hem means rest
I can quite believe, rest uninterrupted by the itching
Torment to mold a weather-cock of fire into a crest.

Is a needle sharper than a pencil? That
Hinges of course on this matter of hands.
A cardinal may be weighed down by his hat,
And a pencil weary for the smooth, white bands
Of a linen cuff, perchance. There it stands.

Two or three spools of coloured thread,
And whatever flower comes into your head
Blooms on the muslin tranquilly,
Evenly patterned as a tree.
I consume with a pencil's lead,
Making a thought, a grief, a laughter.
You will last while fibres hold fibres. I, dead,
Tempt a future of nothing and nothing. No dafter
Aim in the world than that what I have said
May be seeded, harvested, ground into bread
And so on hereafter, and that to be
Till the hungry find nothing to eat in me,
And no fit dwelling in my smouldering towers
Only the crumbling of mouldy hours.
Oh, the peace, the peace of your silken flowers!
The smooth, white dust of your exquisite, faded flowers!