A merry young breeze found a delicate loom, And his labor was more like play, But he wove me a charm and he wove me a doom From the heart of a summer day. He wove it of clouds, and a thrush's call, And the breath of a blossom fair; But oh! the warp and the woof of it all Was the wisp of a maiden's hair! And though you should harness the talons of hell, And tear at it ever and aye, You could not break the web of the spell That was woven that summer day! |