weaving.
137
On ghastly, death-sown fields, that lie
Beneath the tearless Southern sky.
Beneath the tearless Southern sky.
"Alas! the weft has lost its white.
It grows a hideous tapestry,
That pictures war's abhorrent sight:—
Unroll not, web of destiny!
Be the dark volume left unread,—
The tale untold,—the curse unsaid!"
It grows a hideous tapestry,
That pictures war's abhorrent sight:—
Unroll not, web of destiny!
Be the dark volume left unread,—
The tale untold,—the curse unsaid!"
So up and down before her loom
She paces on, and to and fro,
Till sunset fills the dusty room,
And makes the water redly glow,
As if the Merrimack's calm flood
Were changed into a stream of blood.
She paces on, and to and fro,
Till sunset fills the dusty room,
And makes the water redly glow,
As if the Merrimack's calm flood
Were changed into a stream of blood.
Too soon fulfilled, and all too true
The words she murmured as she wrought!
But, weary weaver, not to you
Alone was war's stern message brought:
"Woman!" it knelled from heart to heart,
"Thy sister's keeper know thou art!"
The words she murmured as she wrought!
But, weary weaver, not to you
Alone was war's stern message brought:
"Woman!" it knelled from heart to heart,
"Thy sister's keeper know thou art!"
