All day, all nlfht.1 cnn licar the Jar Of Ibe loom of llfe, uuil near und far It thrlllH wlth lis deep and mnftied sound, As tlreless the wheels go ulways round. Hiislly, roaselensly goea the loom, lu the liht of day and mldnlght gloom, The wheels are turnl uk early and late, And the woof is wouud lu the warp of fate. Click, Claek ! Uiere's a thread of lovewove In; Click, clack ! another of wrong and stu ! Whal acheckered thlng thls Ufe wlll be W'hen we se lt unrolled lu eternlty ! Time, wlth a face llke mystery, And hands as tm as hands can be, SUs at Uie loom wlth arms outHpread To catch lu its meshes each glauclng thread. When Bhall thls wonderful web be done? In a thousand yeais, perhaps In one, Or to-monrow. Whoknoweth? notyouorl; Uut Ibe wheels turu on and the shuttles fly. Ah. sadcyed weavers, the years are slow, Hut each one h nearer to the end, I know; A ml some duy thu last thread shall Uewuven luQol graut lt may be love tnstead of sin. Are we spinners of wool In thls life-web - sa? Do we lurnlsh the weaver a thread each day? It were netter, then, O, my frleod, to spin A beiuitlful thread than a thread of sln !