My life was woven long ago,
Or ever this our earth was fair,
With mingled threads of love and woe,
Hate, tears, and laughter, hope, despair.
Yea! it was made ere water was,
Ere snow fell, or the bright dew shone
Upon the tender blades of grass;
It sate and dreamed its life alone.
Ere golden stars swam through the blue
Of heaven, singing as they came,
God wrought into it every hue,
And gave it wings and feet of flame:
A little thing of His own breath,
A word that trembled into song,
To fall through mists of life and death,
A frail thing conquering the strong.
All things that in the heavens are,
The silver-horned sailing moon,
The golden fire of every star,
Through seas of time shall slip and swoon,
And be as if they had not been;
But through the darkness of the night,
Through silence of that peace serene,
Lo! I shall fashion mine own light,
Remembering earth's shining streams
And all the heavens’ starry grace.
Yea, dreaming once again the dreams,
Which were the beauty of thy face.