Northampton County Magazine 1928 Jan-Dec Vol. I p. 141-142

The Old Lacemaker

In her favourite corner twixt the window and the fire,

Where the pale Spring sunshine falls slanting o’er her knee,

Lighting up the busy hands which never seem to tire,

The old Lacemaker sits at work, plodding patiently.

All around is trim and neat, for afternoon is here,

Time of leisure stillness when the peaceful village street

Echoes to no voice or step – but only loud and clear

Sounds the old clock’s ticking with its ceaseless measured beat.

Beneath her skilful fingers how swift the bobbins fly,

Whilst even on the pillow there grows with magic grace

A web of wondrous fineness, and she will question why

You gaze at it and marvel – to her ‘tis only lace.

Yet proudly she unfolds it with her hands toil-stained and worn

A thing of filmy beauty and spotless as the snow,

And shows you all the stitches she learnt e’er yon were born,

And only grows the keener the more you want to know.

She numbers eighty summers, and yet how true the sight

Which marks the slightest blunder, nor tolerates a slip;

How quick and sure the fingers though neither smooth nor white,

And what a world of patience in that firm upper lip.

The while she plys her bobbins she prates of long ago,

Now drops a word of wisdom, now points a homely jest;

So casting threads of memory, nimbly to and fro

She weaves as fair a pattern with even greater zest.

One day will come a silence – the pillow laid aside,

In some dim nook forgotten, for none will have the skill

To trace the fairy texture which was her lifelong pride,

And lone will be the corner beside the widow sill.

But many a silken robe her dainty work will grace.

And live a prized possession when she has gone to rest;

For perfect was her labourer, although ‘twas only lace,

The offering of a loyal heart which ever gave its best.

S. Bostock