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."