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!
