The Weaver*
My life is but a weaving
Between Nature and me.
I cannot choose the colors;
But we work steadily.
Often we're weaving sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
Forget She sees the upper
And I, the underside.
Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall She unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.
The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern Nature planned.
*A note: I altered this poem a bit, adapting it to my own thoughts and speech. The original author used the word "God" and "He" where I use "Nature" and "She."
