Winding Wool
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.
poem by Robert William Service
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Related quotes
0271 The Covering
It was not bright enough, not bright enough
to show itself to them, to all; to tempt
the world to bring it gifts; the coloured wool
would say to them look here, look here
it was not strong enough, not strong enough
to meet the heat, the cold; to venture
in the world’s bright gifts; the coloured wool
would warm it in the cold, the cold
it was not safe enough, not safe enough
to shield itself from hurt; to live its life
amid the strong, the weak; the coloured wool
would hide it from the hurt, the hurt
there was not care enough, not care enough;
the wool was knotted; slipped and slid
around its centre there; the coloured wool
is knotted here and here and here
there is not time enough, not time enough
to free the wool; the wool it would cast off
from off its centre there; the coloured wool
that never was the need, the need
there were not words enough, not words enough
to free itself; itself which never had the need
to bind itself in coloured wools; it did not trust
the bright, the strong, the safe, the care, the time.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Ode to My Socks
Mara Mori brought me
a pair of socks
which she knitted herself
with her sheepherder's hands,
two socks as soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if they were two cases
knitted with threads of twilight and goatskin,
Violent socks,
my feet were two fish made of wool,
two long sharks
sea blue, shot through
by one golden thread,
two immense blackbirds,
two cannons,
my feet were honored in this way
by these heavenly socks.
They were so handsome for the first time
my feet seemed to me unacceptable
like two decrepit firemen,
firemen unworthy of that woven fire,
of those glowing socks.
Nevertheless, I resisted the sharp temptation
to save them somewhere as schoolboys
keep fireflies,
as learned men collect
sacred texts,
I resisted the mad impulse to put them
in a golden cage and each day give them
birdseed and pieces of pink melon.
Like explorers in the jungle
who hand over the very rare green deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stretched out my feet and pulled on
the magnificent socks and then my shoes.
The moral of my ode is this:
beauty is twice beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a matter of two socks
made of wool in winter.
poem by Pablo Neruda
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Pull The Wool
Dear friend you dont have to lie to me
When I ask you whats going on
Are you doin right or ya doing wrong
If you do right will there not be a lifting up
You misbehave
Sin is crouching by your grave
We can begin to make amends
Fill your sails full with wind
I know youre tossed and tempest turned, but make no mistake
Ill never sleep on you faith
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Now your sin, you must mask it
Your face is all riddled with guilt
Cover you like a blanket, but no warmth will it give
Now Im sittin here and cant believe all the measures youve taken
To cheat, lie and decieve me and all your friends
You got a lot a crazy things in life that you want to do in life, thats all right, but
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Dont you pull the wool over my eyes
Lies in the nest enver ever let the birds get to rest
I can forgive, but I never can forget and lies in the nest never
Ever gave the birds no rest
Bricks built without straw were so weak they crumbled
To mud, just as your excuse with truth left you easily undone
Dont you run away
song performed by by G. Love & Special Sauce
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Knitting Socks
CLICK, click! how the needles go
Through the busy fingers, to and fro--
With no bright colors of berlin wool,
Delicate hands today are full:
Only a yarn of deep, dull blue,
Socks for the feet of the brave and true.
Yet click, click, how the needles go,
'Tis a power within that nerves them so.
In the sunny hours of the bright spring day,
And still in the night time far away.
Maiden, mother, grandame sit
Earnest and thoughtful while they knit.
Many the silent prayers they pray,
Many the tear drops brushed away.
While busy on the needles go,
Widen and narrow, heel and toe.
The grandame thinks with a thrill of pride
How her mother knit and spun beside
For that patriot band in olden days
Who died the Stars and Stripes to raise--
Now she in turn knits for the brave
Who'd die that glorious flag to save.
She is glad, she says, ''the boys' have gone,
'Tis just as their grandfathers would have done.
But she heaves a sigh and the tears will start,
For 'the boys' were the pride of grandame's heart.
The mother's look is calm and high,
God only hears her soul's deep cry--
In Freedom's name, at Freedom's call,
She gave her sons--in them her all.
The maiden's cheek wears a paler shade.
But the light in her eyes is undismayed.
Faith and hope give strength to her sight,
She sees a red dawn after the night.
Oh, soldiers brave, will it brighten the day,
And shorten the march on the weary way,
To know that at home the loving and true
Are knitting and hoping and praying for your
Soft are the voices when speaking your name,
Proud are their glories when hearing your fame.
And the gladdest hour in their lives will be
When they greet you after the victory.
poem by Anonymous Americas
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The
A pair of very chubby legs
Encased in scarlet hose;
A pair of little stubby boots
With rather doubtful toes;
A little kilt, a little coat,
Cut as a mother can,
And lo! before us strides in state
The Future's 'coming man.'
His eyes, perchance, will read the stars,
And search their unknown ways;
Perchance the human heart and soul
Will open to their gaze;
Perchance their keen and flashing glance
Will be a nation's light,--
Those eyes that now are wistful bent
On some 'big fellow's' kite.
That brow where mighty thought will dwell
In solemn, secret state;
Where fierce ambition's restless strength
Shall war wih future fate;
Where science from now hidden caves
New treasures shall outpour,--
'Tis knit now with a troubled doubt,
Are two, or three cents, more?
Those lips that, in the coming yaars,
Will plead, or pray, or teach;
Whose whispered words, on lightning flash,
From world to world may reach;
That, sternly grave, may speak command,
Or, smiling, win control,--
Are coaxing now for gingerbread
With all a baby's soul!
Those hands--those little busy hands--
So sticky, small, and brown,
Those hands, whose only mission seems
To pull all order down,--
Who knows what hidden strength may lie
Within their future grasp,
Though now 'tis but a taffy-stick
In sturdy hold they clasp?
Ah, blessings on those little hands,
Whose work is yet undone!
And blessings on those little feet,
Whose race is yet un-run!
And blessings on the little brain
That has not learned to plan!
Whate'er the Future hold in store,
God bless the 'coming man'!
poem by Anonymous Americas
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These Hands
Given by God -are these hands!
One can do many things -with these hands
With love one can help a strangers' hands-
Allay and comfort the elders' gnarled hands
Clean sweep and mop with these hands
Decorate and embellish with these hands
Cook and serve food to all with these hands
Clasp a loved one with these hands
Applaud one with pleasure with these hands
Dig the soil and form a garden with these hands
Hold a book to read with these hands
Write and post a card with these hands
Type a poem to cheer someone with these hands
Draw a picture and sew clothes with these hands
Paint a beautiful scene to amuse with these hands
Play a game of volley ball or cricket with these hands
Swim the waters and row a boat with these hands
Pick the harvests and fruits with these hands
Feed the animals and birds with these hands
Seek the warmth of dear ones with these hands
Feel the soft petals of a flower with these hands
Fold the palms to pray with these hands
Given by God - are these hands!
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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I can see through almost any scam, especially one perpetrated by the federal government. I can see through it... they can't pull the wool over my eyes, it's absolutely freakin' impossible to pull the wool over my eyes about the government.
quote by Gary Coleman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Pull Away
Ohhhh
Pull
Pull away
Away from everyone
Is there some way out?
Somewhere you can go?
Oh no no no
We dont have the answers, sailed a thousand years, thats on your own
Is there one thin resolution?
Are you cold?
Is there everything
I said, is everything they push upon you?
Still I watch you pull away
Away
Away
Away from everything, you pull away
Wont you come on, pull
Pull away
Away from everyone
Is there no way out?
No where left to roam?
Oh no no no
We dont have your answers
Youre a thousand years, still on your own
But theres one thin resolution
Are you cold?
Is there everything?
I said, is everything they push upon you?
Still I watch you pull away
You pull away
You pull away
Away from everyone
You pull
Pull away
You pull away
Oh wont you heal my broken hands, they lay upon you
Wrap my soul around
Still I watch you pull away
Heal my broken hands, they lay upon you
Wrap my soul around you
Still I watch you pull away
Drain your tears
Oh no, drain your tears
But you pull, pull away
Away from everyone
Pull, pull away
Away from everyone
Is there somewhere, somewhere you can go?
No, theres no nowhere
Nowhere left to run
Still you pull, you pull away
Away
Away
Away from everything
You pull,
You pull away
You pull away
Oh wont you heal my broken hands, they lay upon you
Wrap my soul around
Still I watch you pull away
Heal my broken hands, they lay upon you
Wrap my soul around you
Still I watch you pull away
You pull away
You pull away
You pull away
Away from everyone
You pull away
You pull away
You pull away
song performed by by Candlebox
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Out on the Roofs of Hell
SING us a song in this cynical age,
Sing us a song, my friend,
While the Flesh and the Devil are all the rage
And Death seems the only end.
Give it the clatter of hoof-clipped bones
And a note like a dingo’s yell,
And the long, low sigh when the big mob moans
Out on the roofs of hell.
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides and Co.,
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides—
Over the roofs of hell we go
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides.
We take the route or we take the track,
Hell-doomed by the greed of man,
And we leave our wives in the scrubs out back
To struggle as best they can.
For the credit is short and the flour is low—
And this is the tale we tell—
A check must be made and the stock must go
Over the roofs of hell.
Wake ere the burst of the great white sun
Into the blazing skies,
Our limbs are stiff and the lids are gummed
Over our blighted eyes.
But our souls have perished in dust and heat,
And this is the tale we tell—
Our lives are ever a grim retreat
With Death on the roofs of hell.
They drivel and say how the bushman drinks,
But what do the townsfolk know?
The life is a hell to the man who thinks—
He must drink or his reason go.
Drink and drink, as the bushman knows,
Till he strip to the skin and yell;
Down for a change! for a rest! he goes
Down through the roofs of hell.
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides and Co.,
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides,
Down through the roofs of hell they go
For Wool, Tallow, and Hides.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Emily
Now Emily hides in a way
she is waiting for a
knight in shining armor
and I know that nothing I'd say
could make her see me
as a man of honor
but I am
now sometimes I wish she could see through
all the rain and clouds that fill her sky
and know that tomorrow brings with wings
of bird a song to fill her mind
and I am
oh yes I am
[Chorus:]
the one who can sing
all of the dreams
the one who can make them all come true
if she would believe
I'm down on my knees
but in my hands I hold
Now Emily stands at the door
a picture lies in pieces on the floor
the one where we walked on the beach
the wind blew waves
that crashed upon the shore
oh we are
forever more
[Chorus:]
the one who can sing
all of our dreams
the one who can make them all come true
if she would believe
I'm down on my knees
but in my hands I hold
everything that she wants
everything that should be
as far as her
big blue eyes could see
if she would believe
I'm down on my knees
but in my hands I hold
what do you want me to do
my head in my hands
I wait for the words
to come and make you understand
so tell me I'm right
tell me I touched you down
so deep inside
Now Emily hides in a way
she is waiting for a
knight in shining armor
and I know that nothing I'd say
can make her see me
as a man of honor
[Chorus:]
I'm the one who can sing
all of our dreams
the one who can make them all come true
if she would believe
I'm down on my knees
but in my hands I hold
everything that she wants
everything that should be
as far as her
big blue eyes could see
if she would believe
I'm down on my knees
but in my hands I hold
in my hands I hold
the ring
song performed by by Nine Days from So Happily Unsatisfied
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Weight of waver
Cotton wool
Fluffy wadding
Cleans my wounds
White and soft
And I watch you float in the sky.
No gravity,
When I think of my spinning head
Like a ball of Lead
That I am certain,
Even though I drowned
Never floats in the river of life?
poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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Crocheted
With only the dramatic art of Lease Agreements
to tether my mind, my thoughts flew away to the
mathematics of crafts – coral reefs are crocheted,
the atmosphere is knit and some even fold a stop
sign into a pair of pants - at the intersection of
math and handicraft
Confirming my suspicion that the fine art of knitting
cables in multicoloured, many-layered wool - can be
used to represent Many Worlds Theory!
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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My mother's hands
My mother had thick, wide, hands,
callused from years of hard work.
I used to like to hold them,
feel their strength and warmth
Those were the hands that cared,
caressed and held her me close.
Those were the hands that scrubbed
and washed, cooked for us and nursed.
My mother had beautiful hands
and would paint her nails light pink.
They were warm, artistic hands
that could crochet well and knit.
Those were the hands that created,
made beautiful shawls and clothes.
Those were the hands that altered dresses
I wore ‘til they were old.
My mother had beautiful hands
that cooked and cleaned and scrubbed,
and within the things that those hands did
were bundles and bundles of love.
poem by Ruth Walters
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My Ancestors
A barefoot boy I went to school
To save a cobbler's fee,
For though the porridge pot was full
A frugal folk were we;
We baked our bannocks, spun our wool,
And counted each bawbee.
We reft our living from the soil,
And I was shieling bred;
My father's hands were warped with toil,
And crooked with grace he said.
My mother made the kettle boil
As spinning wheel she fed.
My granny smoked a pipe of clay,
And yammered of her youth;
The hairs upon her chin were grey,
She had a single tooth;
Her mutch was grimed, I grieve to say,
For I would speak the truth.
You of your ancestry may boast,--
Well, here I brag of mine;
For if there is a heaven host
I hope they'll be in line:
My dad with collie at his heel
In plaid of tartan stripe;
My mammie with her spinning wheel,
My granny with her pipe.
poem by Robert William Service
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Clouds
Curly clouds of snowy white,
Fleecy islands in the light,
Prettier than cotton wool,
Come and be my bed tonight.
Even a king would not disdain
Golden cloud for counterpane,
White ones for the sheets so cool
Pillows like a silken skein!
Oh! To sleep and dream, and wake
With the cloud's first morning shake,
Hear the broad Earth stir below,
Watch the shinning daylight break!
Lying safe upon my cloud,
Feeling like a fairy proud,
Sailing softly I should go,
Singing like the larks aloud!
poem by Lawrence Hiung
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President Bush and his administration have tried to pull the wool over our eyes and distract the public from this possibly illegal domestic spying scandal.
quote by Ellen Tauscher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Our Hands
My hands once warm,
And clothed in yours,
my hands once full,
and held in yours.
Empty hands,
Cold hands,
my hands have lost their,
Partner as you once were for me,
Your hands at once rough,
and soft,
Always gentle when in mine,
our hands would meet to fill the cold,
My hands now empty cover tears,
my hands once warm now with
a freezing touch,
your hands are gone,
the warmth they held has left,
these hands of mine.
poem by Rebecca Adams
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Silver Strands
I found some silver strands resting on my pillow
Old Mother time taunts me, like dreadful weeping willow
I found more silver long strands dancing on my shoulder
Yes, constant sad reminder; I’m much much older
I found many silver long stands swimming in my shower
Stroking and washing away my youthful flower
Now, I see silver long strands crying on my head
Screaming, no to my youth and yes it is now dead
I hear silver long strands singing on my brush
To validate my years, No-no-no they must hush...
poem by lecie Bailey Jackson
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Omarism
With pen in hand and pipe in mouth,
And claret iced to quench my drouth,
I sit upon my balcony
That overlooks the sparkling sea,
Serenly gay, and cool, and bland -
With pipe in mouth and pen in hand.
This life I think is beautiful,
When at the jug I take a pull.
The harbor shines like azure silk;
The claret tastes like mother's milk;
Then to the pipe I turn again -
And then I trifle with the pen.
The red-faced neighbors townward go;
The air is in a furnace glow.
I watch them scorching as they pass,
Like flies beneath a burning glass -
Each clutching at the red-hot hour
For coin; their folly turns me sour.
The Business Man may fret and sweat
In his black coat, for etiquette,
And grow in shop and office old,
And gather wrinkles with his gold -
I sit in shirt-sleeves cool and bland,
With pipe in mouth and pen in hand.
The white clouds - idle they as I -
Like dreaming gods, at leisure lie
Upon the hill-crests. Smoke upcurls
From chimneys lazily, and girls
Below me, with bare, brown arms fine,
Are pegging linen on a line.
The great ships, from the world outside,
Steam slowly in with stately pride,
Their giant screws now gently spin;
'Tis good to watch them gliding in
From East, and West, and North, and South,
With jug in hand and pipe in mouth.
These visions fill me with content,
And I remember not the rent.
When with cool breezes comes the night
It will be time enough to write.
Then you shall see me start the band -
With pipe in mouth and pen in hand.
poem by Victor James Daley
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