The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | ||
PROEM
I
You ask us if by rule or noOur many-colored songs are wrought:
Upon the cunning loom of thought
We weave our fancies, so and so.
II
The busy shuttle comes and goesAcross the rhymes, and deftly weaves
A tissue out of autumn leaves,
With here a thistle, there a rose.
III
With art and patience thus is madeThe poet's perfect Cloth of Gold:
When woven so, nor moth nor mould
Nor time can make its colors fade.
The poems of Thomas Bailey Aldrich | ||