Meanwhile we weave upon his robes' array Embroideries of doubts and hopes and fears, The golden threads of laughter by the way, Grey threads of tears.
Careless sits Time of garment grey or gold, Although our passionate labours never cease Till weaving hands are weary and we grow old. And pass to peace.
And who that gazes on that garb of Time Shall in the far light of a distant day Catch aught of colour of song or rune of rhyme? Shall all be grey?
Yet till the end fall—and the day close, Let me weave in the web of pain and the woof of tears The colour of sun-bright seas and the red of the rose, In my Loom of Years.
IN A GARDEN
A twilight peace droops tenderly, The discords of the day depart, And through the hush there comes to be A harmony within the heart; And waking to the quivering strings Spirits are touched to finer things.
Sweet hand-fast silences of eve, When love's supremest note is heard In symphonies the spirits weave Beyond the need of mortal word, O! may we keep your music when We pace the noisy haunts of men.
Give us the strength for daily stress Of toil about the busy world; Give us a balm to bitterness From wounds when cruel shafts are hurled; And give us courage in a sense Of Love's divine omnipotence.