Page:Patriotic pieces from the Great War, Jones, 1918.djvu/162

158 Click! click! click!—so do the needles croon,

Click! click! click!—with a sort of wistful tune;

And the snow sweeps down from a leaden sky,

And the chill wind whines as it passes by,

It's a desolate place for a man to die—

Ah, the needles are none too soon!

Never before was their weave so swift—

Never so firm and true;

Love in the parcel that's handed to me,

Bridging the width of a storm-tossed sea,

And stamped with the seal of YOU!

The gray wool fashions a precious thing,

That covers a fast-timed heart;

And precious the song that the needles sing

As they hasten to do their part.

Click! click! click!—so comes the clear refrain,

Click! click! click!—over and over again;

And it's mother, and sister and maiden fair,

Who knit for the fellow who's "over there,"

The home-hands, doing their little share

For the living—and for the slain!