He buried his dead, and a tenderer tone
Crept into his song, for he sang it alone;
But he wove as he sang and the pattern was bright—
The tapestry of stars that come with the night—
And he built his waste places and conquered by toil
And garnered in peace what was gathered in spoil,
And all the day long
He wove in his song
The patience of right in the pillage of wrong—
And Faith was the ginner,