Quilting Poems

Grandmother's Parlor

I remember the quilt, made with loving care, Draped over the back of her favorite chair, In my Grandmother's parlor.

A quilt full of pictures, a quilt full of love, With birds stitched in gold, seen flying above, In my Grandmother's parlor.

Made with purples and reds and colors so bright, The browns and the greens and even some white, In my Grandmother's parlor.

As I sat on the floor my fingers would glide, Tracing designs over threads narrow and wide, In my Grandmother's parlor.

I would give all I have for a chance to be there, In my Grandmother's lap, in her favorite chair, In my Grandmother's parlor.

by Priscilla Schrock

This poem is reprinted from Good Housekeeping, October 25, 1890.

The Crazy Quilt

Oh, say, can you see by the dawn's early light,
What you failed to perceive at the twilight's last gleaming;
A crazy concern that through the long night
O'er the bed where you slept was so saucily streaming;
The silk patches so fair,
Round, three-cornered and square
Gives proof that the lunatic bed-quilt is there.
Oh, the crazy-quilt mania triumphantly raves,
And maid, wife, and widow are bound as its slaves
On that quilt dimly seen as you rouse from your sleep
Your long-missing necktie in silence reposes,
And the filoselle insects that over it creep,
A piece of your vest half-conceals, half discloses;
There is Kensington-stitch
In designs that are rich,
Snow-flake, arrasene, point russe and all sich.
Oh, the crazy-quilt mania, how long will it rave?
And how long will fair woman be held its slave?

And where is the wife who so vauntingly swore
That nothing on earth her affections could smother?
She crept from your side at the chiming of four
And is down in the parlor at work on another.
Your breakfasts are spoiled,
And your dinners half-boiled,
And your efforts to get a square supper are foiled
By the crazy-quilt mania that fiendishly raves,
And to which all the women are absolute slaves.

And thus it has been since the panic began,
In many loved homes it has wrought desolation,
And cursed is the power by many a man,
That has brought him so close to the verge of starvation,
But make it she must,
She will do it or bust,
Beg, swap, and buy pieces or get them on trust,
Oh, the crazy-quilt mania, may it soon cease to rave
In the land of the free and the home of the brave.
-Anonymous

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