Ah, sadly tangled are the silken threads With which I blindly weave,—poor, broken shreds! How can I mend my blunders here and there? How shall I blend the colors soft and fair? Alas! alas! try ever as I will, 'Tis all the same,—a hopeless failure still. Here, where the roses and the lilies white, I should have woven on a ground-work bright, Bordered with violets and daisies fine, Broidered in many a curious design,— Dreaming, perchance, the pattern I forget, And blur my work with tears of vain regret. If only I might pick the dark threads out, Which seem to turn the pattern all about; If ever fairest colors I might choose, Instead of all these dark and sombre hues, And try again, surely it would come right, In all the future, whether dark or bright.
Oft, in the past, has grim and stern Despair Torn mesh from mesh my silken network rare,— Each fibrous tissue a tenacious part Torn rudely from my quivering heart,— To teach me more humility, through pain. I tried to place the threads all smooth again, Striving to put blind, erring self aside, Crushing beneath my feet my foolish pride,— Like a caged wild-bird, chafing 'gainst the bands Which seemed to hold so tight my feeble hands,— I could not send the shuttle where I would, Or reach the tinted flosses where I stood.
If I could be more patient, trusting more, Waiting God's time and way to help me o'er The dim, dark places, often higher light Had brought new beauties clearly to my sight. Yet, God forgive me, if I sometimes feel My spirit fretting on the hard, cold steel! For hidden wheels with ceaseless friction move, And, right or wrong, some colors are inwove. The massive beam turns noiselessly around, On which the golden threads of life are wound: Though patiently we weave year after year, We know not if the end be far, or near. Like tinseled baubles vanish from our sight The things wherein we thought to find delight. Our deepest sorrow scarcely can efface The imperfect lines our weary fingers trace.
No web of all our weaving, bright or fair, With the Great Master's pattern can compare. Faith, hope and love may make our duty plain, And, in the future, aid us to attain New strength and skill. An unseen hand May help us weave a texture rich and grand, And make the woof our hands can not control, A fitting garment for the fairest soul.
