Another Wonderful Poem by Anonymous (with a few edits on my part)

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."