Classic Poem

She was a quiet little body
In a quaint silk shawl,
Who sat and sewed and listened,
But hardly spoke at all.

She let her copper kettle
And her bright-as-copper fire,
Wag like tongues and hum like voices
In a cozy little choir.

She was quieter with others
Than they could be alone,
But the flashing of her fingers
Was a wit all its own.

And while we talked her needle
Like a swift dragon fly,
Was sewing seeds of summer
Into squares as blue as sky.

I have taken tea from many,
And talk from many more,
But a blue bag of lavender
I never had before
Or since from any woman
When I left her at her door.

Now that her fire, her kettle,
And herself are still,
Hearths seem merely hissing,
Spouts only shrill.

So I never stop from talking,
So I always keep astir—
I would be afraid of silence
That was not a gift from her
In shiny bits like ribbons,
Sweet, like lavender.