The Weavers
The world is a loom wherein life is the thread
That breaks only once and the weaver is dead!
Through the warp of our purpose the woof of each deed
Must fly with the shuttle though poor fingers bleed.
We are all busy weavers, think just as we may;
The loom will keep going, the shuttle will play;
Fast weaving the cloth as it moves right and left;
Or useful or useless depends on the weft.
Some weaving for pleasure, some weaving for nought,
Unraveling the fabric they aimlessly wrought;
The one seeking pleasures that never can please;
The other in idleness, never at ease.
Some weavers of glory, some weavers of fame:
If the cloak prove too short is the weaver to blame?
Some weave for the lowly, some weave for the proud;
Some working a lifetime at plaiting a shroud.
Some weave to keep weaving, with life in the twist,
And fingers get worn when they weave to exist!
The fabric we 're weaving depends, I presume,
Sometimes on the weaver, sometimes on the loom.
And thus we keep weaving throughout the long years,
Some working and smiling; some working in tears;
In life's great exhibit we bring what we may
To show what is woven—Behold the display:
The costly, the useful, the showy, the plain;
Some spotted by tears as if left in the rain;
Some frayed at the end where the weaver had stopped—
The thread being broken, the worn shuttle dropped.
There tapestries hang, rich in figures of old,
And softest of velvets embroidered with gold;
While some have brought silk in whose bright colors lie
The hues of the sunset, the tints of the sky:
Fine linen as white as the cumulus cloud;
Shall it serve for a wedding or serve as a shroud?
Ah, now I bethink me—how stupid one grows—
'T is doubtless intended for soft swaddling-clothes!
The delicate touch of some fingers I trace
In the exquisite web of yon texture of lace,
As if some deft spider while weaving his bed
In a maze of strange beauty had tangled his thread.
But who shall play censor and sit at the bar
To determine what manner of weavers we are?
And yet if our weaving be put to the test—
Those weaving the useful are weaving the best.
That breaks only once and the weaver is dead!
Through the warp of our purpose the woof of each deed
Must fly with the shuttle though poor fingers bleed.
We are all busy weavers, think just as we may;
The loom will keep going, the shuttle will play;
Fast weaving the cloth as it moves right and left;
Or useful or useless depends on the weft.
Some weaving for pleasure, some weaving for nought,
Unraveling the fabric they aimlessly wrought;
The one seeking pleasures that never can please;
The other in idleness, never at ease.
Some weavers of glory, some weavers of fame:
If the cloak prove too short is the weaver to blame?
Some weave for the lowly, some weave for the proud;
Some working a lifetime at plaiting a shroud.
Some weave to keep weaving, with life in the twist,
And fingers get worn when they weave to exist!
The fabric we 're weaving depends, I presume,
Sometimes on the weaver, sometimes on the loom.
And thus we keep weaving throughout the long years,
Some working and smiling; some working in tears;
In life's great exhibit we bring what we may
To show what is woven—Behold the display:
The costly, the useful, the showy, the plain;
Some spotted by tears as if left in the rain;
Some frayed at the end where the weaver had stopped—
The thread being broken, the worn shuttle dropped.
There tapestries hang, rich in figures of old,
And softest of velvets embroidered with gold;
While some have brought silk in whose bright colors lie
The hues of the sunset, the tints of the sky:
Fine linen as white as the cumulus cloud;
Shall it serve for a wedding or serve as a shroud?
Ah, now I bethink me—how stupid one grows—
'T is doubtless intended for soft swaddling-clothes!
The delicate touch of some fingers I trace
In the exquisite web of yon texture of lace,
As if some deft spider while weaving his bed
In a maze of strange beauty had tangled his thread.
But who shall play censor and sit at the bar
To determine what manner of weavers we are?
And yet if our weaving be put to the test—
Those weaving the useful are weaving the best.
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