There was a weaver, centuries ago Who sat beside his idle loom all day Waiting for inspiration: some design So beautiful and rare that it would be The masterpiece of his loved artistry. At evening, when the blue mist kissed the hills And wrapt the valley in a soft embrace The weaver lifted up his eyes and saw The sun dip low and flush the earth with rose— As every sunset does before it goes! "I will weave that into my rug," cried he, "Then all who look at it will understand, For into it I'll weave the mist's soft blue, The brown wing of the Chinese nightingale. The lotus flowers, the cherry-blossom pale." He wove the priceless rug with loving care, And when men saw it they were wont to say: "Here is true beauty: simple, homely things— The woodland birds, the flowers, the sunset's glow— Only a master could have planned it so!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...YOUTH PENETRANT by CONRAD AIKEN AFTER WRITING A POEM by DAVID IGNATOW |