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About this Poem 

“Hours” was originally published in Hall’s 1921 collection Curtains (John Lane Company, 1921).

Hours

Hazel Hall

I have known hours built like cities,
House on grey house, with streets between
That lead to straggling roads and trail off,
Forgotten in a field of green;

Hours made like mountains lifting
White crests out of the fog and rain,
And woven of forbidden music—
Hours eternal in their pain.

Life is a tapestry of hours
Forever mellowing in tone,
Where all things blend, even the longing
For hours I have never known.

This poem is in the public domain.

This poem is in the public domain.

Hazel Hall

Hazel Hall

Hazel Hall was born in Saint Paul, Minnesota, in 1886. She published three books of poetry during her career: Curtains, Walkers, and Cry of Time. She was much-loved in her lifelong home state of Oregon; the Oregon Book Award is named jointly for Hall and poet William Stafford. Hall died in Portland, Oregon, in 1924. 

by this poet

poem

Last night when my work was done,
And my estranged hands
Were becoming mutually interested
In such forgotten things as pulses,
I looked out of a window
Into a glittering night sky.

And instantly
I began to feather-stitch a ring around the moon.

poem

Here are old things:
Fraying edges,
Ravelling threads;
And here are scraps of new goods,
Needles and thread,
An expectant thimble,
A pair of silver-toothed scissors.
Thimble on a finger,
New thread through an eye;
Needle, do not linger,
Hurry as you ply.
If you

poem
The Wind is sewing with needles of rain.
With shining needles of rain
It stitches into the thin
Cloth of earth. In,
In, in, in.
Oh, the wind has often sewed with me.
One, two, three.

Spring must have fine things
To wear like other springs.
Of silken green the grass must be
Embroidered. One and two and