Poems
Sonnet CXVI — William Shakespeare
The Husband’s Complaint — M.T. Morrell
The Best of Reasons Why — J.H.D.
A Stitcher’s Night Before Christmas — unknown
An excerpt from “The Prophet” — Khalil Gabran
From the “Song of Solomon” — King James Bible
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love — Christopher Marlowe
LET ME NOT TO THE MARRIAGE OF TRUE MINDS (Sonnet CXVI)
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
– William Shakespeare
THE HUSBAND’S COMPLAINT
I’ve heard of wives too musical - too talkative - too quiet
Of scolding and of gaming wives and those too fond of riot;
But yet of all the errors I know, which to the women fall;
For ever doing fancy work, I think exceeds them all.
The other day when I went home no dinner was for me,
I asked my wife the reason; she answered, “One, two, three,”
I told her I was hungry and stamped upon the floor
She never even looked at me, but murmured “One green more.”
If any lady comes to tea, her bag is first surveyed,
And if the pattern pleases her, a copy there is made.
She stares too at the gentlemen, and when I ask her why,
‘Tis, “oh my love, the pattern of his waistcoat struck my eye.”
Ah! The misery of a working wife, with fancy work run wild;
And hands that never do aught else for husband or for child;
Our clothes are rent, our bills unpaid; my house is in disorder;
And all because my lady wife has taken to embroider.
A History of Needlemaking
M.T. MORRALL, 1852
Love, my love, I love you,
Not that you are sweet,
Though in you all graces,
All perfections meet.
Love, my love, I love you,
Not that you are fair,
Though in you is beauty,
Rarest of the rare.
Love, my love, I love you,
Not that you are wise,
Though in you all knowledge,
Joined with prudence, lies.
Love, my love, I love you,
Not that you have gold,
Though in large abundance,
Wealth to you has rolled.
Love, my love, I love you,
Not that you are great,
Though in you concentre
Rank and high estate.
Love, my love, I love you
But for reasons two—
Just because I love you,
Am beloved of you!<
J. H. D in Cassell's Family Magazine, 1889
A Stitcher’s Night Before Christmas
Twas the night before Christmas, and, oh, I was weary.
My stitching unfinished, my eyes getting bleary.
The stockings weren’t finished, the chimney was bare.
And I knew that morning soon would be there.
My children and husband were tucked in their beds,
But visions of backstiches ran through my head.
I’d stitched ornaments and presents and gifts by the ton,
And now, I was finally, almost, almost done.
As I poised my needle for one more backstitch,
I heard something outside that made my hand twitch.
I jumped up from my stitching, and flew to the door,
Pressed my eye to the peephole, tip-toe off the floor.
My stitching forgotten, I peered into the night.
When suddenly, I got a terrible fright.
On my porch appeared Santa, holding his sack.
He knocked softly, and I took a giant step back.
I unlocked the deadbolt, and let Santa in,
He entered and gave a mischievous grin.
“Hope you don’t mind if I come in the door?”
“Coming down the chimney can be quite a chore.”
He said “You’re up late. Still working I see.”
“Do you know how tired you’re going to be?”
“I know, Santa,” I said, with a sigh,
“But I’m still backstitching the stars in the sky,”
“And the fields on that stocking look blobby you know,
I need to backstitch the drifts in the snow.
I’ve been stitching and stitching and stitching, no rest.
I just tried to finish stitching too much, I guess.”
“I know what you mean,” he said with a smile.
“This is my busiest time of the year, by a mile.”
He stooped down by the tree, and he opened his sack,
And began to pull presents out of his pack.
“I’ve got some things here I think you might like,
An oak stitching frame, and a brand new Ott-Light.
A bundle of floss, and a great big mat cutter,”
I smiled and felt my heart go a-flutter.
He put down gifts for us all, then he waved his right hand.
“Go to bed,” he said, glancing at my floor stand.
He gave me a wink, and stepped out the door.
I just stood there a moment, glued to the floor.
After he’d left, I turned back to my chair,
Picked up the stockings, and started to stare.
The backstitching was done! The stars lit the sky!
And on my son’s stocking angels sung on high.
I ran to thank Santa for this final gift,
And watched as his sleigh started to lift.
I heard him exclaim as he pulled out of sight,
“Merry stitching to all, and to all a good night!”
You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,>
And let the winds of heavens dance between you.
Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.
— Khalil Gabran
My beloved spake, and said unto me,
Rise up, my love, my fair one, and come away.
For lo, the winter is past, the rain is over, and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth, the time of the
singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle
is heard in the land.
The fig tree putteth forth her green figs, and the
vines with the tender grape give a good smell.
Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away.
– King James Bible
THE PASSIONATE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.
And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.
And I will make thee beds of roses,
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle,
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle.
A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.
A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs,
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.
The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning;
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
— Christopher Marlowe
