Monograms

I am monogramming Seven dozen napkins, With tablecloths to match, For a bride. Ninety-one times my needle shall trace The leaf-like scrolls that interlace Each other; up the padded side Of the monogram my eye shall guide For ninety-one days where the stitches run ; And every day one more is done. She is tall and fair, She will be married In June. ... The linen is fine as satin is fine; Its shining coolness flaunts design Of death-white poppies, trailing ferns Rioting richly from Grecian urns. Ghost-flowers. Cold, cold ... All these patterned splendours fade Before the crest my hands have made; In the lifeless flax my stitches cry With life my hands may not put by. June . . . Real flowers. Moist and warm to touch, Like flesh . . . And by and by with all the rest Of intimate things in her bridal-chest. Gentle muslins and secret lace. Something of mine will have a place; Caught in these scrolls and filigrees There will be that which no eye sees, The bulk of a season's smothered wonder. My ninety-one days stitched under and under. They will be decking an altar With white roses, And lacing an aisle With white ribbon. . . .