Mary Willis Shuey

THEY gave me the quilt that Great-aunt Elizabeth made—

A quilt of pink roses, and tiny careful stitches.

It goes in my chest, for in October I marry.

Pink roses, with stems of green on a background of white,

And Great-aunt Elizabeth pieced it for her own chest.

She pieced it with trembling hands, for her lover had gone

To fight with the South.

Elizabeth filled in the long days with squares of pink,

Fitting the pattern together with quick, nervous fingers;

Roses of pink, for love and a bride.

But here is a spot of red among the pink roses.

I wonder what is stitched into the quilting.

She finished it long afterwards, when war

Had taken all she had but memories.

She pieced her life into a pink-rose quilt

When war was making patch-work of her soul.

They gave me the quilt that Great-aunt Elizabeth made—

A quilt of pink roses with stems of green, for a bride.

But I see all the time the splotch of blood in the roses.

October is so far when war is near.