Only the virgin knows the life story, The myth implicit in the silk-spun bud Whose leaves are the unopened pages of the heart. The gossamer of her dream floats out across the night; Its fragile thread upholds the somnambulist -- (Let none awaken my beloved, or she is lost) When the angel came, she knew his face And to the stranger asking a strange thing Gave the answer predestined before time. Young spiders weave at first their perfect webs, Later, less certain, they weave worse. Old age spins tattered cobwebs, rags and shreds. Mater Dolorosa, at the end of a spent myth, Remembering the past, but not the future, Has lost her clue, like an old spider, For time undoes us, darkness defaces The figures of Penelope's night loom. Revolving stars wind up the tenuous threads of day-dream And the old spinner ravels skeins of death. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...RESPECTABILITY by ROBERT BROWNING FIRST OR LAST (SONG) by THOMAS HARDY THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL by PUBLIUS AELIUS HADRIANUS CASEY AT THE BAT (2) by ERNEST LAWRENCE THAYER CRUCIFIXION TO THE WORLD BY THE CROSS OF CHRIST by ISAAC WATTS VERSES FOR A GUEST ROOM by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS |