The Stranger at the Gate :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Stranger At the Gate

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I THE WEAVERS

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EXTRACTS FROM APPRECIATAIONS OF "MAN-SONG"

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I
THE WEAVERS

SUNS flash, stars drift,
Comes and goes the moon;
Ever through the wide miles
Corn fields croon
Patiently, hopefully,
A low, slow tune.

Lovingly, longingly,
Labors without rest
Every happy cornstalk,
Weaving at its breast
Such a cozy cradle
For the coming guest.

In the flowing pastures,
Where the cattle feed,
Such a hidden love-storm,
Dying into seed—
Blue grass, slough grass,
Wild flower, weed!

Mark the downy flower-coats
In the hollyhocks!
Hark, the cooing Wheat-Soul
Weaving for her flocks!
Croon time, June time,
Moon of baby frocks!

Rocking by the window,
Wrapt in visionings,
Lo, the gentle mother
Sews and sings,
Shaping to a low song
Wee, soft things!

Patiently, hopefully,
Early, late,
How the wizard fingers
Weave with Fate
For the naked youngling
Crying at the Gate!

Sound, sight, day, night
Fade, flee thence;
Vanished is the brief, hard
World of sense:
Hark! Is it the plump grape
Crooning from the fence?

Droning of the surf where
Far seas boom?

Chanting of the weird stars
Big with Doom?
Humming of the god-flung
Shuttles of a loom?

O'er the brooding Summer
A green hush clings,
Save the sound of weaving
Wee, soft things:
Everywhere a mother
Weaves and sings.