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Poem	She'd bring to me a skein of wool And beg me to hold out my hands; so on my pipe I cease to pull And watch her twine the shining strands Into a ball so snug and neat, Perchance a pair of socks to knit To comfort my unworthy feet, Or pullover my girth to fit. As to the winding I would sway, A poem in my head would sing, And I would watch in dreamy way The bright yarn swiftly slendering. The best I liked were coloured strands I let my pensive pipe grow cool . . . Two active and two passive hands, So busy wining shining wool. Alas! Two of those hands are cold, And in these days of wrath and wrong, I am so wearyful and old, I wonder if I've lived too long. So in my loneliness I sit And dream of sweet domestic rule . . . When gentle women used to knit, And men were happy winding wool.
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