A Young Philosopher

A young philosopher went every day
To watch a seamstress toil at her machine,
Where she’d sit alt’ring clothes, a fine array,
For those too over-grown or those too lean.
Until, at last, because of all he’d seen,
As if awoke from prayer, he raised his head,
And grabb’d her Singer in a fit of spleen,
And smash’d it ‘gainst a wall, and stitches shred:
“The time has come to sew without the thread!
From old and barb’rous ways at last set free,
From all such scissors, needles, strings — instead
Free cloths will join in nat’ral harmony,
Equality, fraternity, oh yes! —
A seamstress need but watch them form a dress.”