"What will it be when I am done?" she said, "A self-compounded morphine of the soul; A sedative administered by self For want of any other to prescribe. The stitches small? Yes, you may find them so, And even; as the restless work of hands Which find no meaning in the task they do Sometimes may be. Having no larger goal, They seek to do a small thing perfectly; Hoping some miracle may make it seem Important to themselves. Were I to watch this window, here, and sit, I should go mad more quickly; so I knit." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HUNTING SONG, FR. ZAPOLYA by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF CLAPHAM ACADEMY by THOMAS HOOD SEVEN TIMES SEVEN [- LONGING FOR HOME] by JEAN INGELOW THE SPIRIT OF SHAKESPEARE: 1 by GEORGE MEREDITH INSOMNIA by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS |