I was the Widow McFarlane, <br />Weaver of carpets for all the village. <br />And I pity you still at the loom of life, <br />You who are singing to the shuttle <br />And lovingly watching the work of your hands, <br />If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth. <br />For the cloth of life is woven, you know, <br />To a pattern hidden under the loom -- <br />A pattern you never see! <br />And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing, <br />You guard the threads of love and friendship <br />For noble figures in gold and purple. <br />And long after other eyes can see <br />You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth, <br />You laugh in your strength, for Hope overlays it <br />With shapes of love and beauty. <br />The loom stops short! The pattern's out! <br />You're alone in the room! You have woven a shroud! <br />And hate of it lays you in it!<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/widow-mcfarlane/
