The Woof of Life
IN the moth-hour's silver gloom
The Weaver at His loom
The quiet pattern of my life would trace.
The grayness of the moth
He wove into the cloth,
And wrought thereon the red rose of your face.
The Weaver at His loom
The quiet pattern of my life would trace.
The grayness of the moth
He wove into the cloth,
And wrought thereon the red rose of your face.
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