"What will it be when I am done?" she said, "A self-compounded morphine of the soul; A sedative administered by self For want of any other to prescribe. The stitches small? Yes, you may find them so, And even; as the restless work of hands Which find no meaning in the task they do Sometimes may be. Having no larger goal, They seek to do a small thing perfectly; Hoping some miracle may make it seem Important to themselves. Were I to watch this window, here, and sit, I should go mad more quickly; so I knit." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO ATLANTA UNIVERSITY - ITS FOUNDERS AND TEACHERS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON THE LILY, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE THE ARMADA; A FRAGMENT by THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY IN THIS AGE OF HARD TRYING, NONCHALANCE IS GOOD AND by MARIANNE MOORE BEAUTIFUL THINGS by ELLEN P. ALLERTON |