The giant Image of Eternal Time
Sits throned amidst the Infinite of Space;
And through the aeons, passing chime by chime,
Heeds not our Race.
Meanwhile we weave upon his robes’ array
Embroideries of doubts and hopes and fears,
The golden threads of laughter by the way,
Grey threads of tears.
Careless sits Time of garment grey or gold,
Although our passionate labours never cease
Till weaving hands are weary and we grow old.
And pass to peace.
And who that gazes on that garb of Time
Shall in the far light of a distant day
Catch aught of colour of song or rune of rhyme?
Shall all be grey?
Yet till the end fall — and the day close,
Let me weave in the web of pain and the woof of tears
The colour of sun-bright seas and the red of the rose,
In my Loom of Years.