Best Famous Sewing Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Sewing poems. This is a select list of the best famous Sewing poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Sewing poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of sewing poems.

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• All Famous Sewing Poems

Written by Walt Whitman | I Hear America Singing I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day--at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

Written by Vladimir Mayakovsky | Back Home Thoughts, go your way home. Embrace, depths of the soul and the sea. In my view, it is stupid to be always serene. My cabin is the worst of all cabins - All night above me Thuds a smithy of feet. All night, stirring the ceiling’s calm, dancers stampede to a moaning motif: “Marquita, Marquita, Marquita my darling, why won’t you, Marquita, why won’t you love me …” But why Should marquita love me?! I have no francs to spare. And Marquita (at the slightest wink!) for a hundred francs she’d be brought to your room. The sum’s not large - just live for show - No, you highbrow, ruffling your matted hair, you would thrust upon her a sewing machine, in stitches scribbling the silk of verse. Proletarians arrive at communism from below - by the low way of mines, sickles, and pitchforks - But I, from poetry’s skies, plunge into communism, because without it I feel no love. Whether I’m self-exiled or sent to mamma - the steel of words corrodes, the brass of the brass tarnishes. Why, beneath foreign rains, must I soak, rot, and rust? Here I recline, having gone oversea, in my idleness barely moving my machine parts. I myself feel like a Soviet factory, manufacturing happiness. I object to being torn up, like a flower of the fields, after a long day’s work. I want the Gosplan to sweat in debate, assignning me goals a year ahead. I want a commissar with a decree to lean over the thought of the age. I want the heart to earn its love wage at a specialist’s rate. I want the factory committee to lock My lips when the work is done. I want the pen to be on a par with the bayonet; and Stalin to deliver his Politbureau reports about verse in the making as he would about pig iron and the smelting of steel. “That’s how it is, the way it goes … We’ve attained the topmost level, climbing from the workers’ bunks: in the Union of Republics the understanding of verse now tops the prewar norm …” Transcribed: by Mitch Abidor.

Written by Walt Whitman | Brother of All with Generous Hand 1 BROTHER of all, with generous hand, Of thee, pondering on thee, as o’er thy tomb, I and my Soul, A thought to launch in memory of thee, A burial verse for thee. What may we chant, O thou within this tomb? What tablets, pictures, hang for thee, O millionaire? —The life thou lived’st we know not, But that thou walk’dst thy years in barter, ’mid the haunts of brokers; Nor heroism thine, nor war, nor glory. Yet lingering, yearning, joining soul with thine, If not thy past we chant, we chant the future, Select, adorn the future. 2 Lo, Soul, the graves of heroes! The pride of lands—the gratitudes of men, The statues of the manifold famous dead, Old World and New, The kings, inventors, generals, poets, (stretch wide thy vision, Soul,) The excellent rulers of the races, great discoverers, sailors, Marble and brass select from them, with pictures, scenes, (The histories of the lands, the races, bodied there, In what they’ve built for, graced and graved, Monuments to their heroes.) 3 Silent, my Soul, With drooping lids, as waiting, ponder’d, Turning from all the samples, all the monuments of heroes. While through the interior vistas, Noiseless uprose, phantasmic (as, by night, Auroras of the North,) Lambent tableaux, prophetic, bodiless scenes, Spiritual projections. In one, among the city streets, a laborer’s home appear’d, After his day’s work done, cleanly, sweet-air’d, the gaslight burning, The carpet swept, and a fire in the cheerful stove. In one, the sacred parturition scene, A happy, painless mother birth’d a perfect child. In one, at a bounteous morning meal, Sat peaceful parents, with contented sons. In one, by twos and threes, young people, Hundreds concentering, walk’d the paths and streets and roads, Toward a tall-domed school. In one a trio, beautiful, Grandmother, loving daughter, loving daughter’s daughter, sat, Chatting and sewing. In one, along a suite of noble rooms, ’Mid plenteous books and journals, paintings on the walls, fine statuettes, Were groups of friendly journeymen, mechanics, young and old, Reading, conversing. All, all the shows of laboring life, City and country, women’s, men’s and children’s, Their wants provided for, hued in the sun, and tinged for once with joy, Marriage, the street, the factory, farm, the house-room, lodging-room, Labor and toil, the bath, gymnasium, play-ground, library, college, The student, boy or girl, led forward to be taught; The sick cared for, the shoeless shod—the orphan father’d and mother’d, The hungry fed, the houseless housed; (The intentions perfect and divine, The workings, details, haply human.) 4 O thou within this tomb, From thee, such scenes—thou stintless, lavish Giver, Tallying the gifts of Earth—large as the Earth, Thy name an Earth, with mountains, fields and rivers. Nor by your streams alone, you rivers, By you, your banks, Connecticut, By you, and all your teeming life, Old Thames, By you, Potomac, laving the ground Washington trod—by you Patapsco, You, Hudson—you, endless Mississippi—not by you alone, But to the high seas launch, my thought, his memory. 5 Lo, Soul, by this tomb’s lambency, The darkness of the arrogant standards of the world, With all its flaunting aims, ambitions, pleasures. (Old, commonplace, and rusty saws, The rich, the gay, the supercilious, smiled at long, Now, piercing to the marrow in my bones, Fused with each drop my heart’s blood jets, Swim in ineffable meaning.) Lo, Soul, the sphere requireth, portioneth, To each his share, his measure, The moderate to the moderate, the ample to the ample. Lo, Soul, see’st thou not, plain as the sun, The only real wealth of wealth in generosity, The only life of life in goodness?

Written by Oscar Wilde | Ballade De Marguerite (Normande) I am weary of lying within the chase When the knights are meeting in market-place. Nay, go not thou to the red-roofed town Lest the hoofs of the war-horse tread thee down. But I would not go where the Squires ride, I would only walk by my Lady's side. Alack! and alack! thou art overbold, A Forester's son may not eat off gold. Will she love me the less that my Father is seen Each Martinmas day in a doublet green? Perchance she is sewing at tapestrie, Spindle and loom are not meet for thee. Ah, if she is working the arras bright I might ravel the threads by the fire-light. Perchance she is hunting of the deer, How could you follow o'er hill and mere? Ah, if she is riding with the court, I might run beside her and wind the morte. Perchance she is kneeling in St. Denys, (On her soul may our Lady have gramercy!) Ah, if she is praying in lone chapelle, I might swing the censer and ring the bell. Come in, my son, for you look sae pale, The father shall fill thee a stoup of ale. But who are these knights in bright array? Is it a pageant the rich folks play? 'T is the King of England from over sea, Who has come unto visit our fair countrie. But why does the curfew toll sae low? And why do the mourners walk a-row? O 't is Hugh of Amiens my sister's son Who is lying stark, for his day is done. Nay, nay, for I see white lilies clear, It is no strong man who lies on the bier. O 't is old Dame Jeannette that kept the hall, I knew she would die at the autumn fall. Dame Jeannette had not that gold-brown hair, Old Jeannette was not a maiden fair. O 't is none of our kith and none of our kin, (Her soul may our Lady assoil from sin!) But I hear the boy's voice chaunting sweet, 'Elle est morte, la Marguerite.' Come in, my son, and lie on the bed, And let the dead folk bury their dead. O mother, you know I loved her true: O mother, hath one grave room for two?

Written by Emily Dickinson | A fuzzy fellow without feet A fuzzy fellow, without feet, Yet doth exceeding run! Of velvet, is his Countenance, And his Complexion, dun! Sometime, he dwelleth in the grass! Sometime, upon a bough, From which he doth descend in plush Upon the Passer-by! All this in summer. But when winds alarm the Forest Folk, He taketh Damask Residence -- And struts in sewing silk! Then, finer than a Lady, Emerges in the spring! A Feather on each shoulder! You'd scarce recognize him! By Men, yclept Caterpillar! By me! But who am I, To tell the pretty secret Of the Butterfly!

Written by Craig Raine | Nature Study (for Rona, Jeremy, Sam & Grace) All the lizards are asleep-- perched pagodas with tiny triangular tiles, each milky lid a steamed-up window. Inside, the heart repeats itself like a sleepy gong, summoning nothing to nothing. In winter time, the zoo reverts to metaphor, God's poetry of boredom: the cobra knits her Fair-Isle skin, rattlers titter over the same joke. All of them endlessly finish spaghetti. The python runs down like a spring, and time stops on some ancient Sabbath. Pythagorean bees are shut inside the hive, which hymns and hums like Sunday chapel-- drowsy thoughts in a wrinkled brain. The fire's gone out-- crocodiles lie like wet beams, cross-hatched by flames that no one can remember. Grasshoppers shiver, chafe their limbs and try to keep warm, crouching on their marks perpetually. The African cricket is trussed like a cold chicken: the sneeze of movement returns it to the same position, in the same body. There is no change. The rumple-headed lion has nowhere to go and snoozes in his grimy combinations. A chaise lounge with missing castors, the walrus is stuck forever on his rock. Sleepily, the seals play crib, scoring on their upper lips. The chimps kill fleas and time, sewing nothing to nothing Five o'clock--perhaps. Vultures in their shabby Sunday suits fidget with broken umbrellas, while the ape beats his breast and yodels out repentance. Their feet are an awful dream of bunions-- but the buffalo's brazil nut bugle-horns can never sound reveille.

Written by Dylan Thomas | Twenty-Four Years Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labour.) In the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, In the final direction of the elementary town I advance as long as forever is.

Written by Thomas Hood | The Song of the Shirt With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt." "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work — work — work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's Oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work — work — work Till the brain begins to swim; Work — work — work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch — stitch — stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, Sewing at once with a double thread, A Shroud as well as a Shirt. But why do I talk of Death? That Phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear its terrible shape, It seems so like my own — It seems so like my own, Because of the fasts I keep; Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! "Work — work — work! My Labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread — and rags. That shatter'd roof — and this naked floor — A table — a broken chair — And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work — work — work! From weary chime to chime, Work — work — work! As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work — work — work, In the dull December light, And work — work — work, When the weather is warm and bright — While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the spring. Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet — With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! Oh! but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!" With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread — Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, — Would that its tone could reach the Rich! — She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

Written by D. H. Lawrence | Bat At evening, sitting on this terrace, When the sun from the west, beyond Pisa, beyond the mountains of Carrara Departs, and the world is taken by surprise ... When the tired flower of Florence is in gloom beneath the glowing Brown hills surrounding ... When under the arches of the Ponte Vecchio A green light enters against stream, flush from the west, Against the current of obscure Arno ... Look up, and you see things flying Between the day and the night; Swallows with spools of dark thread sewing the shadows together. A circle swoop, and a quick parabola under the bridge arches Where light pushes through; A sudden turning upon itself of a thing in the air. A dip to the water. And you think: "The swallows are flying so late!" Swallows? Dark air-life looping Yet missing the pure loop ... A twitch, a twitter, an elastic shudder in flight And serrated wings against the sky, Like a glove, a black glove thrown up at the light, And falling back. Never swallows! Bats! The swallows are gone. At a wavering instant the swallows gave way to bats By the Ponte Vecchio ... Changing guard. Bats, and an uneasy creeping in one's scalp As the bats swoop overhead! Flying madly. Pipistrello! Black piper on an infinitesimal pipe. Little lumps that fly in air and have voices indefinite, wildly vindictive; Wings like bits of umbrella. Bats! Creatures that hang themselves up like an old rag, to sleep; And disgustingly upside down. Hanging upside down like rows of disgusting old rags And grinning in their sleep. Bats! Not for me!

Written by Marilyn Hacker | Rune of the Finland Woman For Sára Karig "You are so wise," the reindeer said, "you can bind the winds of the world in a single strand."—H. C. Andersen, "The Snow Queen" She could bind the world's winds in a single strand. She could find the world's words in a singing wind. She could lend a weird will to a mottled hand. She could wind a willed word from a muddled mind. She could wend the wild woods on a saddled hind. She could sound a wellspring with a rowan wand. She could bind the wolf's wounds in a swaddling band. She could bind a banned book in a silken skin. She could spend a world war on invaded land. She could pound the dry roots to a kind of bread. She could feed a road gang on invented food. She could find the spare parts of the severed dead. She could find the stone limbs in a waste of sand. She could stand the pit cold with a withered lung. She could handle bad puns in the slang she learned. She could dandle foundlings in their mother tongue. She could plait a child's hair with a fishbone comb. She could tend a coal fire in the Arctic wind. She could mend an engine with a sewing pin. She could warm the dark feet of a dying man. She could drink the stone soup from a doubtful well. She could breathe the green stink of a trench latrine. She could drink a queen's share of important wine. She could think a few things she would never tell. She could learn the hand code of the deaf and blind. She could earn the iron keys of the frozen queen. She could wander uphill with a drunken friend. She could bind the world's winds in a single strand.