That he sees his real handiwork, that his marvelous skill is learned.
Ah, the sight of its delicate beauty, how it pays him for all his cost!
No rarer, daintier work than his was ever done by the frost.
Then the master bringeth him golden hire, and giveth him praise as well,
And how happy the heart of the weaver is, no tongue but his own can tell.
II
The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun,
Wherein we are weaving ever, till the mystic web is done.
Weaving blindly, but weaving surely, each for himself his fate—
We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.