 | Last poems including Afterglow and Beyond the sunset |  |
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WITH A WEDDING-GIFT
Long years ago, the legends say—
It may have been in far Cathay,
In Kurdistan, or Samarcand,
Agra, Tabriz, or Saraband,
Where palm-trees wave, and golden showers
Fall from the sweet acacia bowers—
Heir to the worker's heritage,
From year to year, from youth to age,
In a low chamber's cloistered gloom
A weaver sat before his loom.
It may have been in far Cathay,
In Kurdistan, or Samarcand,
Agra, Tabriz, or Saraband,
Where palm-trees wave, and golden showers
Fall from the sweet acacia bowers—
Heir to the worker's heritage,
From year to year, from youth to age,
In a low chamber's cloistered gloom
A weaver sat before his loom.
I know not if the tale be true;
As told to me, I tell to you.
Above his loom this pattern hung,
Designed by one who died unsung,
Unknown, unheralded, his fame
Not even the shadow of a name;
But day by day the weaver wrought
Embodying the creative thought,
Until his own dream grew more real
And perfect than the fair ideal.
As told to me, I tell to you.
Above his loom this pattern hung,
Designed by one who died unsung,
Unknown, unheralded, his fame
Not even the shadow of a name;
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Embodying the creative thought,
Until his own dream grew more real
And perfect than the fair ideal.
So at our loom of life we weave
From sunlit morn to darkening eve.
We toss the shuttle to and fro,—
The varied colors come and go,—
A bright thread here, a shadow there,
Perchance strange tangles everywhere.
Yet fear not, faint not! He whose hand
Follows the Master's high command
Shall weave a web more perfect far
Than even the dreams of angels are!
From sunlit morn to darkening eve.
We toss the shuttle to and fro,—
The varied colors come and go,—
A bright thread here, a shadow there,
Perchance strange tangles everywhere.
Yet fear not, faint not! He whose hand
Follows the Master's high command
Shall weave a web more perfect far
Than even the dreams of angels are!
| Last poems including Afterglow and Beyond the sunset | |