Through the fantastic tapestry called Existence
Each human being is drawn like a thread
By the invisible hand of the Master Weaver.

Threads, threads, threads! No two colors alike —
Some scarlet, some yellow, some green, some ultra-violet.

Modulated in myriad degrees of shading,
But for the most part interblended
Of black and white in varying tones of gray,

As they leave the spool to be swept through the loom
The threads are white. Then the mechanism whirls them
Into other hues till, at the end, a slight tracery of black
Marks where clumsy shears have snipped them short.

Threads, threads, threads! Threads of textures as innumerable as themselves —
Some soft as silk, some linty and frayed, some steely hard,
Some limp and slack, others taut and true as bowstrings:
The majority wavering and irresolute, like marks made on paper by a child.

Schools, race-tracks, churches, brothels.
Passions that surge to war, the lovely quiet of homes,
Glamour of gold, clamor of crowds in frenzy,
Ocean liners that ride the waves, airplanes that outspeed the swallows,
Railways that spin on glistening steel bands —
All, all are shuttles in the loom of Life.

The shuttles snatch up the threads, flick them forward,
Intertwine them one with another in weird abandon,
Twist and snarl them inextricably, send them forward
On lonely ways, or blend them harmoniously with the major pattern.

Drawn through the tapestry in its making on the loom
The frail protoplasmic threads fail to see
The iridescent glory of the complete design;
Each thinks his own tiny stipple of color dominates the scheme.