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 of 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? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A DIVINE IMAGE, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE AMERICA by ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 2 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN ABOU BEN ADHEM by JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT LAY OF THE TRILOBITE by MAY EMMA GOLDWORTH KENDALL BALLADE OF BLUE CHINA by ANDREW LANG EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT by ALEXANDER POPE EPISTLE TO MISS TERESA BLOUNT, ON HER LEAVING THE TOWN by ALEXANDER POPE |