all day, round the clacking net
The weaverís fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaverís
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
"Oh, come away, or we die!"
a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not
The thunder of feet and the cry of the flight,
A slaughter weird and shrill;
Gray dreams are set in the weaverís sight,
The weaver is weaving still.
away, dear soul, come away or we die;
Hearíst thou the moan and the
rush! Come away;
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly;
The kind God hath left them
The battle-axes cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and
wife, what boots to fly from pain,
When pain is wherever we fly?
And death is a sweeter thing than a chain:
íTis sweeter to sleep than to
The kind God giveth the days that wane;
If the kind God hath said it,
And the weaver
wove, and the good wife fled,
And the city was made a tomb,
And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead
Shone into that silent room,
And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead
Brown weaver slain by his loom.
Yet I think
that in some dim shadowy land,
Where no suns rise or set,
Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand
Round the dusk of its silken
Forever flyeth his shadowy hand,
And the weaver is weaving yet.