THE WEAVER. <br /> <br />LITTLE they think, the giddy and the vain, <br />Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees, <br />While the light glossy silk or rustling train <br />Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze, <br />How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom, <br />Crossing in silence the perplexing thread, <br />Pent in the confines of one narrow room, <br />Where droops complainingly his cheerless head:-- <br />Little they think with what dull anxious eyes, <br />Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands, <br />The devious mingling of those various dyes <br />Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands: <br />But the day cometh when the tired shall rest,-- <br />Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's breast!<br /><br />Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-xiii-7/
