Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WEAVER, by FANNY FORRESTER


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WEAVER, by                    
First Line: A weaver sat by the side of his loom
Last Line: "that I bear with me to heaven."
Subject(s): Religion; Theology


A WEAVER sat by the side of his loom
A-flinging the shuttle fast,
And a thread that would last till the hour of doom
Was added at every cast.

His warp had been by the angels spun
And his weft was bright and new,
Like thread that the morning uprays from the sun,
All jeweled over with dew.

And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers
In the rich, soft web were bedded;
And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours,
Not yet were Time's feet leaded.

But something there came slow stealing by,
And a shade on the fabric fell;
And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly;
For thought has a wearisome spell.

And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain
Was of a melancholy gray;
And anon I marked there a teardrop's stain
Where the flowers had fallen away.

But still the weaver kept weaving on,
Though the fabric all was gray.
And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone,
And the gold threads cankered lay.

And dark, and still darker, and darker grew
Each newly woven thread,
And some were of a death-mocking hue,
And some of a bloody red.

And things all strange were woven in,
Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears;
And the web was broken and poor and thin,
And it dripped with living tears.

And the weaver fain would have flung it aside,
But he knew it would be a sin;
So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied,
A-weaving those life cords in.

And as he wove, and weeping, still wove,
A tempter stole him nigh;
And with glowing words to win him strove,
But the weaver turned his eye --

He upward turned his eye to Heaven,
And still wove on -- on -- on!
Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven,
And the tissue strange was done.

Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed,
And about his grizzled head,
And, gathering close the folds of his shroud,
Laid him down among the dead.

And after, I saw in a robe of light
The weaver in the sky;
And angel's wings were not more bright,
And the stars grew pale, it nigh.

And I saw 'mid the folds all the iris-hued flowers,
That beneath his touch had sprung,
More beautiful far than these stray ones of ours,
Which the angels have to us flung.

And wherever a tear had fallen down
Gleamed out a diamond rare,
And jewels befitting a monarch's crown
Were footprints left by care.

And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh
Was left a rich perfume,
And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky
Shone the labor of sorrow and gloom.

And then I prayed: "When my work is done,
And the silver cord is riven,
May the stain of sorrow the deepest one,
That I bear with me to Heaven."





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