The Exactions of Time
A SKILFUL weaver in the days of old
Designed a fabric for a king to wear;
And gathered to him costliest and rare
Tyrian-empurpled silks, and burnished gold,
That warp and woof might glitter manifold
With colours like the rainbow-tinted air.
And then misfortune gripped him unaware,
And all the treasure-store for bread was sold.
I sell the glorious fancies of my dreams,
My hope, my faith, the love I won and gave,
And dull bare life, wherein no glory gleams,
Is all that I have now the power to save:
A weary toiler at ignoble themes.
Dead Weaver, can you pity from your grave?