Classic Poem

All day I walk among the crowd,
Seeking the Weavers. Well I wot
This noonday, staring blank and hot,
Is not for them; yet in a cloud
Of men I wander — call aloud.
All day I seek, and find them not.

Lo, every night the Weavers come,
And one by one, and silently,
With eyes down-looking timidly,
They steal into the darkening room,
Bent forms and eld against the gloom,
With faces gray as mystery.

Dim faces have the Weavers, — eyes
Of patience that do seem to shun
The waning light, as one by one
They come what way the shadow lies,
Like long imprisoned memories
That dare not look upon the sun.

With flickering smiles of gentleness,
Finger on lip, they come: and soon
Beneath the shuttle's lowly croon
The silence groweth less and less,
As dusk before the loveliness
Of a slow-rising summer moon.

The shuttle hummeth. Hovering
Across the threads, as dark to see
As falling rain at dusk may be,
It poiseth like a winged thing
Upon the web; its murmuring
Is silence wrapt in melody.

The shuttle hummeth. A slant gleam
Of moonlight wavereth along
The faces of the Weaver throng,
Their uncouth shapes: else would ye deem
They were not there, — so doth there seem
Nought save the shuttle's growing song.

Lo, a gray pallor on the loom
Waxeth apace, — a glamourie
Like dawn outlooking, pale to see,
Before the sun hath burst to bloom;
Wan beauty, growing out of gloom,
With promise of fair things to be.

The shuttle singeth. And a mist
Of rainbow hangeth there anon,
Passing away ere it hath shone,
To leave a bloom of amethyst,
Quick fading, too: ye had not wist
Ye saw it clear, ere it was gone.

The shuttle singeth. And fair things
Upon the web do come and go;
Dim traceries like clouds ablow
Fade into cobweb glimmerings,
A silver, fretted with small wings, —
The while a voice is singing low.

It warmeth into living gold
As cowslips open in the sun;
It burneth bright, and one by one
Across the sea-rim, ships of old
Pass by, pass by, like stars in fold.
(Who singeth ere the web be done?)

The ships they sail through moon and star,
Across the shimmering weft of sea.
The iris-winged argosy,
Unharbored of all ports that are,
Sinketh into the sun, afar,
As in the cowslip doth the bee.

The quiet yieldeth up its sweet
To a great laughter; winds arise;
Wild birds awaken alien skies,
And in a tremulous outer heat
The pulses of the summer beat
To the deep hum of dragon-flies.

Light cometh yet, and changing hues
Of promise; and the burning thread,
Like restless opal, fain would wed
The creeping smoke of filmy blues.
One ruddy spark, alight, doth fuse
All color in a dawn of red.

(Who singeth?) Oh, thou rose of flame,
Like a face smiling as to bless,
Out-burning from a shadow tress
Of dark, — a glory without name:
It bloweth swiftly as it came,
Rose of immortal happiness!

" Lo, the Life-glory, it hath come!"
Ah, Soul, who laughed aloud at thee?
Nay, not the Weavers. Mystery!
Was it a shuttle, broken, dumb?
Nought is there, nought in all the room
Save daylight and its vacancy.

Last night the Weavers came and went.
Ay me, so fair a web was wrought,
All winged hopes within it caught!
And ere the colors were forspent
The blank day snatched the joy they lent,
Day, staring like a thing distraught.

I seek the Weavers. As I go,
All faces save their own I see,
But not their gentle company, —
Never their smiles that flicker so.
Theirs are the only eyes I know;
All other folk are strange to me.