THE SPINNER.
BY ELOISE PICKETT.
Wearied to death of my thoughts!
Is there none, in this epoch of wondrous wares,
Will sell me a fair, sweet dream?
I summoned my spirit, this morn, to be chid
For her endless weaving of gloom;
But she lifted me retrospective eyes,
Burning and dry (for the tears, dammed back,
Have found them a pool in my heart);
Her face was wan, and her mouth was set
In the hard, thin line of resolve.
And I left unsaid my stern rebuke,
But her answer cried loud in her mien:
“I weave; but the warp and the woof are thine;
Thou madest them yesterday.”
And so I watch, with sickening hope,
As her busy fingers ply
’Mongst threads from the throbbing Other Days,
And wisps from the ominous Days to Come,
And skeins from the stagnant Now.
Wearied to death of my thoughts!
Is there none, in this epoch of cunning skill,
Can weave me thought-fabrics fair?
