She was a quiet little body In a quaint silk shawl, Who sat and sewed and listened, But hardly spoke at all. She let her copper kettle And her bright as copper fire, Wag like tongues and hum like voices In a cozy little choir. She was quieter with others Than they could be alone, But the flashing of her fingers Was a wit all its own. And while we talked her needle Like a swift dragon fly, Was sewing seeds of summer Into squares as blue as sky. I have taken tea from many, And talk from many more, But a blue bag of lavender I never had before Or since from any woman When I left her at her door. Now that her fire, her kettle, And herself are still, Hearths seem merely hissing, Spouts only shrill. So I never stop from talking, So I always keep astir -- I would be afraid of silence That was not a gift from her In shiny bits like ribbons, Sweet, like lavender. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAPPER KAPLINSKI AT THE NORTH SIDE CUE CLUB by HAYDEN CARRUTH AUTUMN by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON OCTAVES: 16 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON IN THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM by SARA TEASDALE THE FOUNTAIN (1) by SARA TEASDALE OF DISTRESS BEING HUMILIATED BY THE CLASSICAL CHINESE POETS by HAYDEN CARRUTH |