Adelaide Crapsey’s “Song” captures a quiet, unsettling secret. The speaker is carefully sewing her own burial shroud, yet she does it with a strange sense of peace. The fabric is “shimmering fine” and “fair,” the stitches laid in neat rows—she takes pride in the work, even though it’s meant for her own death. Most striking, she does this “in door-way where the lilac blows,” humming softly as if nothing is wrong. The image is unsettling because it mingles life’s sweetness—spring lilacs, a light tune—with the sober reality of mortality. No one around her knows what she is making, which deepens the poem’s intimate, almost eerie mood. There is no panic or grief here, just a calm, self-possessed acceptance. The repeating lines, like a refrain, make the act feel ritualistic, as if she is gently preparing for an inevitable end while still enjoying the world’s small beauties.
Song — Summary
I make my shroud but no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair, With stitches set in even rows. I make my shroud but no one knows.
In door-way where the lilac blows, Humming a little wandering air, I make my shroud and no one knows, So shimmering fine it is and fair.