Here you will find the Poem The Lady With The Sewing-Machine of poet Dame Edith Sitwell
Across the fields as green as spinach, Cropped as close as Time to Greenwich, Stands a high house; if at all, Spring comes like a Paisley shawl ? Patternings meticulous And youthfully ridiculous. In each room the yellow sun Shakes like a canary, run On run, roulade, and watery trill ? Yellow, meaningless, and shrill. Face as white as any clock's, Cased in parsley-dark curled locks ? All day long you sit and sew, Stitch life down for fear it grow, Stitch life down for fear we guess At the hidden ugliness. Dusty voice that throbs with heat, Hoping with your steel-thin beat To put stitches in my mind, Make it tidy, make it kind, You shall not: I'll keep it free Though you turn earth, sky and sea To a patchwork quilt to keep Your mind snug and warm in sleep!
