Every shred of Life is worn from the Dead Past o’er and o’er!
Through the years the Earth is heaving with this weird and wondrous weaving,
And your slender thread but waiteth till the Loom hath need for more!”
* * * * *
It hath ceased! There is no glimmer on the hearth! The lamp grows dimmer,
Dimmer, dimmer,—now it flickers, flashes, wildly flares— is fled!
Through the Darkness round me heaving, now I hear a sound of weaving,
As a mighty loom were working, viewless, with a viewless thread!
THE BELLS.