The Weaver

Ceaselessly the weaver, Time,
     Sitting at his mystic loom, 
Keeps his arrowy shuttle flying — 
Every thread anears our dying: 
And with melancholy chime, 
Very low and sad withal, 
Sings his solemn madrigal
     As he weaves our thread of doom.

"Mortals!" thus he weaving sings, 
     "Bright or dark the web shall be 
As ye will it; all the tissues 
Blending in harmonious issues, 
Or discordant colorings. 
Time the shuttle drives, but you 
Give to every thread its hue, 
     And elect your destiny.

"God bestowed the shining warp; 
     Fill it with as bright a woof, 
And the whole shall glow divinely, 
As if wrought by angels finely
To the music of the harp; 
And the blended colors be 
Like perfected harmony, 
     Keeping evil things aloof.

"Envy, Malice, Pride, and Hate, 
     Foulest progeny of Sin, 
Let not these the weft entangle 
With their blind and furious wrangle, 
Marring your diviner fate; 
But with love and deeds of good 
Be the web throughout enhued, 
     And the Perfect shall ye win.”

Thus he singeth very low,
     Sitting at his mystic loom, 
And his shuttle still is flying — 
Thread by thread anears our dying, 
Grows our shroud with every throw; 
And the hues of Hell or Heaven 
To each thread by us are given, 
     As he weaves our web of doom.