A Child of the People :: :: University of Virginia Library

Still at the loom of Time goes on the toil;
Still at his task th' unresting craftsman strives,
And some strange purpose that no god can foil
Grows shapelier in our lives.

What pattern weaves he all these years of ours?
How blend the colours? Is the texture rare?
I pray he fashion, dearest, nought but flowers,
To make thy future fair.

Is the skein ravelled? Runs the woof awry?
Not always does the weaver work by line:—
Distortions these that vanish by-and-bye,
Or ground the life-design.

How shall these threads combine? What care dispart
These tangles? Lo, my soul knows only this,—
One purpose sure; Time hideth in his heart
How its fulfilment is.

Ah me, what will the years do with us, sweet?
Weave us what web of life? I know not, I.
I dream we grow toward something more complete,
Made perfect when we die.

So this result of living we shall see
Foreshadowed only. Death, that maketh end,
Will round our lives to some divine degree
We shall not apprehend.

Dream we look back on life when, for an hour,
Silence has held the loom and Time's swift hand;
And lo! each life has grown a glorious flower,
Ev'n as the craftsman planned,

Lily and leaf, a glory of gloom and gold!—
Hark, down star-baffling heights what voices glide?—
“See, first, life's face: life doth of life behold
Only the under-side!”