In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,

In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,

Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,

I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

The leaves of the winter wither and sink in the forest mould

To colour the flowers of April with purple and white and gold:

Light and scent and music die and are born again

In the heart of a grey-haired woman who wakes in a world of pain.

The hound, the fawn and the hawk, and the doves that croon and coo,

We are all one woof of the weaving and the one warp threads us through,

One flying cloud on the shuttle that carries our hopes and fears

As it goes thro' the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years.

The crosiers of the fern, and the crown, the crown of the rose,

Pass with our hearts to the Silence where the wings of music close,

Pass and pass to the Timeless that never a moment mars,

Pass and pass to the Darkness that made the suns and stars.

[Pg 2]

Has the soul gone out in the Darkness? Is the dust sealed from sight?

Ah, hush, for the woof of the ages returns thro' the warp of the night!

Never that shuttle loses one thread of our hopes and fears,

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