A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/Grey Knitting
GREY KNITTING
SOMETHING sings gently through the din of battle,
Something spreads very softly rim on rim,
And every soldier hears, at times, a murmur
Tender, incessant,—dim.
A tiny click of little wooden needles,
Elfin amid the gianthood of war;
Whispers of women, tireless and patient,
Who weave the web afar.
Whispers of women—tireless and patient,
"This is our heart's love," it would seem to say,
"Wrought with the ancient tools of our vocation,
Weave we the web of love from day to day."
And so each soldier, laughing, fighting,—dying
Under the alien skies, in his great hour,
May listen, in death's prescience all-enfolding,
And hear a fairy sound bloom like a flower—
I like to think that soldiers, gaily dying
For the white Christ on fields with shame sown deep,
May hear the tender song of women's needles,
As they fall fast asleep.