THE LITTLE POEM OF LIFE
I;—
Thou;—
We;—
They;—
Small words, but mighty.
In their span
Are bound the life and hopes of man.
For, first, his thoughts of his own self are full;
Until another comes his heart to rule.
For them, life's best is centred round their love;
Till younger lives come all their love to prove.
CUP OF MIXTURE
For every Guest who comes with him to sup,
The Host compounds a strangely mingled cup;—
Red Wine of Life and Dregs of Bitterness,
And, will-he, nil-he, each must drink it up.
WEAVERS ALL
Warp and Woof and Tangle,— Weavers of Webs are we. Living and dying—and mightier dead, For the shuttle, once sped, is sped—is sped;— Weavers of Webs are we.
White, and Black, and Hodden-gray,— Weavers of Webs are we. To every weaver one golden strand Is given in trust by the Master-Hand;— Weavers of Webs are we.
And that we weave, we know not,— Weavers of Webs are we. The threads we see, but the pattern is known To the Master-Weaver alone, alone;— Weavers of Webs are we.