 
To Winifred The day she’s wed (Having no gold) I send instead This sewing basket, And lovingly Demand that she, If ever wanting help from me, Will surely ask it. Which being gravely said, Now to go straight ahead With a cutting of string, An unwrapping of paper, With a haberdasher’s flourish, The airs of a draper, To review And search this basket through. Here’s one place full Of coloured wool, And various yarn With which to darn; A sampler, too, I’ve worked for you, Lettered from A to Z, The text of which In small cross-stitch Is Love to Winifred. Here’s a rag-doll wherein To thrust the casual pin. His name is Benjamin For his ingenuous face; Be sure I’ve not forgotten Black thread or crochet cotton; While Brussels lace Has found a place Behind the needle-case. (But the case for the scissors? Empty, as you see; Love must never be sundered Between you and me.) Winifred Roberts, Think of me, do, When the friends I am sending Are working for you. The song of the thimble Is, “Oh, forget her not.” Says the tape-measure, “Absent but never forgot.” Benjamin’s song He sings all day long, Though his voice is not strong: He hoarsely holloas More or less as follows:— Button boxes Never have locks-es, For the keys would soon disappear. But here’s a linen button With a smut on, And a big bone button With a cut on, A pearly and a fancy Of small significancy, And the badges of a Fireman and a Fusilier. With sounds like a Turkish hubble-bubble Smoked at a furious rate, The words are scarcely intelligible:— (Prestissimo) Needles and ribbons and packets of pins, Prints and chintz and odd bodikins, They’d never mind whether You laid ’em together Or one from the other in pockets and tins. For packets of pins and ribbons and needles Or odd bodikins and chintz and prints, Being birds of a feather. Would huddle together Like minnows on billows or pennies in mints. He’ll learn to sing more prettily When you take him out to Italy On your honeymoon, (Oh come back soon!) To Florence or to Rome, The prima donnas’ home, To Padua or to Genoa Where tenors all sing tra-la-la.... Good-bye, Winifred, Bless your heart, Ben. Come back happy And safe agen. |
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