I who cut patterns,
As every soul must do,
Fret myself with longing
For themes that are new.
All these fashions
Were moulded years gone by,
And, like the mask of politics,
Are coloured with a lie.
Even the treasured love motif,
This thing of you and me,
It must so carefully be cut
To keep us bound, yet free.
And death, the sombre casket
Of centuries of song,
And war, and rivalries and creeds,
These we have used too long.
To-day I found a charming thing
Of silk and golden lace,
And yet, beneath the filigree,
What an old, wrinkled face!
Still, I believe in legends
Of laughter and delight,
And words all coloured with the sun
And perfumed by the night.
And I've a mind to leave the shops
And fashions old and new,
And cut my pattern from a wind,
And baste it up with dew.
I who cut patterns,
As every soul must do,
Fret myself with longing
For themes that are new.