Late Hours

Crowds are passing on the street, Tuck on tuck and pleat on pleat Of people hurrying along, Homeward bound, throng on throng. Their work is finished, mine undone; Still my stitches run.

I cannot watch the people go, Fold on fold and row on row; But I know each pulsing tread Is spinning out a life's fine thread; I know the stars, like needle-gleams, Are pricking through the sky's wide seams ;

And soon the moon must show its face, Like a pearl button stitched in place. All the long hours of the day Are finished now and folded away; Yet the hem is still undone Where my stitches run.