My Weaver

Between the twilight’s eve and morn,
     Between the dews of more and eve,
     Lither than webs the fairies weave
From blade to blade of standing corn,—
In work, of which no dreams bereave her,
Still feeds her warp my darling Weaver!

What time her step at daily toil,
     Piles like the shuttle, to and fro,
     I see the treads of beauty flow
Free from her many-tinted coil,
And then my heart, their glad receiver,
Saith low, “God bless my dark-eyed Weaver!”

When summer’s sultry noon is past
     I see her delicate hand put back
     All baffled winter from our track
And yet the unseen web grows fast
Warmer than Saxon fleece or beaver,
The rich gift of my busy Weaver.

Whether she tend the baby-girl
     Who chirps and dances on her knee
     Or turns her silent glance to me,
I feel that fluttering sheet unfurl
From her fine loom whose shuttle ever
Is the swift heart-beat of my Weaver!

Sometimes her living thought in speech
     Comes sparking, like a fountain’s play
     And more, at times, her mute eyes say
Of things that to the wordless reach;
But glad alike, a sworn believer,
I drink the wisdom of my Weaver.

When daylight takes its blushing leave,
     Like timid lover of his maid,
     With mine amid the starry shade,
Eye, heart and clasping fingers weave
The folds that, till I cannot leave her
Inwind me with my gentle Weaver.

In deep night, when at last it comes,
     With arm-linked sleep and happy dreams,
     Far back in light the love-veil gleams
And the swift shuttle lowly hums,
Closer my thrilled arms wind to sheave her,
And firmer fold my loving Weaver.

O, she hath vestured all my life
     With woven beauty, light and love,
     A holy bounty from above,—
My angel Weaver, Woman, Wife!
How blest my heart is to receive her,
How leaps to bless my darling Weaver!