The Weaver

The patter of rain on the roof,
    The glint of the sun on the rose;
Of life, these the warp and the woof,
    The weaving that everyone knows.
Now grief with its consequent tear,
    Now joy with its luminous smile;
The days are the threads df the year--
    Is what I am weaving worth while?

What pattern have I on my loom?
    Shall my bit of tapestry please?
Am I working with gray threads of gloom?
    Is there faith in the figures I seize?
When my fingers are lifeless and cold,
    And the threads I no longer can weave
Shall there be there for men to behold
    One sign of the things I believe?

God sends me the gray days and rare,
    The threads from his bountiful skein,
And many, as sunshine, are fair.
    And some are as dark as the rain.
And I think as I toil to express
    My life through the days slipping by,
Shall my tapestry prove a success?
    What sort of a weaver am I?

Am I making the most of the red
    And the bright strands of luminous gold?
Or blotting them out with the thread
    By which all men's failure is told?
Am I picturing life as despair,
    As a thing men shall shudder to see,
Or weaving a bit that is fair
    That shall stand as the record of me?