The Crazy Quilt

Patchwork only, did you say,
This mosaic quaint and gay,
Starred with dainty appliqué,
In confusion mazy?
Sooth it hath a high-born air,
With an easeful charm and rare,
Lightening the weight of care.
Wherefore call it crazy?

Every woman in the land
This bewitching quilt has planned;
Slender fingers, toil-worn hand,
Pulse alike with pleasure
As the curious pieces blend
This an heirloom's grace to lend,
That the souvenir of a friend,
Each a cherished treasure.

Patiently, dear grandma sets
Bit to bit, and swift forgets
All the little daily frets
Age and loss are bringing,
And we hear her softly croon
To herself a tender tune;
'Tis of youth and love a rune
She is gently singing.

Shaking heads and looking wise,
Merchants smile with doubtful eyes
When, expectant of a prize,
Maidens beg a sample.
Stock of velvet, silk, or frieze,
Like the famous nibbled cheese,
Disappears if, dames to please,
Clipped are fragments ample.

Patchwork 'tis, but glorified,
Aureoled with stately pride,
Fit to offer to a bride
As a wedding present.
Stitched with more than common pains,
Offspring of artistic brains,
Wrought in flowers, and loops, and chains,
Is this patchwork pleasant.

~Margaret E. Sangster

This poem was published in Harper's Bazar (the original spelling of the journal's name), on January 12, 1884. The crazy quilt in the photo is one that was passed down by my husband's aunt.