In the night she told a story,
In the night and all night through,
While the moon was in her glory,
And the branches dropped with dew.
‘ Twas my life she told, and round it
Rose the years as from a deep;
In the world's great heart she found it,
Cradled like a child asleep.
In the night I saw her weaving
By the misty moonbeam cold,
All the weft her shuttle cleaving
With a sacred thread of gold.
Ah! she wept me tears of sorrow,
Lulling tears so mystic sweet;
Then she wove my last to-morrow,
And her web lay at my feet.
Of my life she made the story:
I must weep — so soon‘ twas told!
But your name did lend it glory,
And your love its thread of gold!