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Hazel Hall
There is nothing new in what is said
By either a needle or a thread :
Stitch, says a needle, Stitch, says the thread:
Stitch for the living; stitch for the dead;
All seams measure the same.
Garb for the living is light and gay.
While that for the dead is a shrouding grey.
But all things match on a later day
When little worm-stitches in the clay
Finish all seams the same.
A needle has no memories;
Less than the stir of frozen trees,
Than unheard rain falling on stone,
Are the seams that it has known.
Stitches running up a seam
Are not like feet beside a stream,
And the thread that swishes after
Is not at all like echoed laughter.
Yet stitches are as quick as feet,
Leaping from a rocky pleat
To seams that slip like marshy ground;
And thread-swish has a hollow sound.
Stitches that have a seam to sew
Must not forget the way they go,
While feet that find the cool earth sweet
Have forgotten they are feet.
And a laugher cares not why
His echoes have a haunted cry.
So stitches running up a seam
Are not like feet beside a stream.