We sleep, but the loom of life never stops, and the pattern which was weaving when the sun went down is weaving when it comes up in the morning.
quote by Henry Ward Beecher
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
Widow McFarlane
I was the Widow McFarlane,
Weaver of carpets for all the village.
And I pity you still at the loom of life,
You who are singing to the shuttle
And lovingly watching the work of your hands,
If you reach the day of hate, of terrible truth.
For the cloth of life is woven, you know,
To a pattern hidden under the loom i
A pattern you never see!
And you weave high-hearted, singing, singing,
You guard the threads of love and friendship
For noble figures in gold and purple.
And long after other eyes can see
You have woven a moon-white strip of cloth,
You laugh in your strength, for Hope o'erlays it
With shapes of love and beauty.
The loom stops short! The pattern's out!
You're alone in the room! You have woven a shroud!
And hate of it lays you in it!
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy! | In Romanian
The Loom of Dreams
I broider the world upon a loom,
I broider with dreams my tapestry;
Here in a little lonely room
I am master of earth and sea,
And the planets come to me.
I broider my life into the frame,
I broider my love, thread upon thread;
The world goes by with its glory and shame,
Crowns are bartered and blood is shed;
I sit and broider my dreams instead.
And the only world is the world of my dreams,
And my weaving the only happiness;
For what is the world but what it seems?
And who knows but that God, beyond our guess,
Sits weaving worlds out of loneliness?
poem by Arthur Symons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
He who is false to the present duty breaks a thread in the loom, and you will see the effect when the weaving of a life-time is unraveled.
quote by William Ellery Channing
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Lift Me Up Like You've Plucked a Buttercup
When you come around finding you have found,
You've settled down.
With slowed jets ready to quit your lippin'
And prepared to sit and begin to listen'...
You've done shifted from a drifter position.
And it's there to be gripped!
All that life has blessed you with!
ooo-ooo
Many in fits can't handle what they get.
And they seek partnerships...
That end in arguments,
Gone ballistic.
Left in realistic lethal pieces.
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been sneezing.
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been breathing.
Just leave don't mention...
Any attitude you've got,
That's dropped you mopin'!
Take a little whiff of me I'll free you easy.
I'm that destiny you need.
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been sneezing.
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been breathing.
When you come around finding you have found,
You've settled down.
With slowed jets ready to quit your lippin'
And prepared to sit and begin to listen'...
You've done shifted from a drifter position.
And it's there to be gripped!
All that life has blessed you with!
ooo-ooo
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been sneezing.
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been breathing.
ooo-ooo
Just Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been sneezing.
Lift me up!
Like you've plucked a buttercup,
From your weaving...
Through the weeds you've been breathing.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Tapestry for Life
The weaving of many
threads together
creating a beautiful
tapestry.
A tapestry for life.
Two young lovers
carressing in the moon
light.
Planning for a future
weaving their tapestry
for life.
poem by Heather Burns
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Jane O'Grady
Grey old lady, sat by the sea
With her nimble fingers, weaving,
Jane O’Grady, seventy three
In the world that she was leaving.
Hummed sweet honey from virgin lips
In the way of the wind, sad-sighing,
Carried the song from her fingertips
To the day that she lay dying.
Shuttle sang in the early breeze
To the tune of life’s sweet sorrow:
“God, I’m weary of weaving love,
But I’ll not be here tomorrow.”
Grey old lady, worked with a will
On the shawl of life’s sweet pattern,
Fingers stilled in the dawning chill
As the world turned once too often.
Nevermore will she weave the love
That we borrowed, all unknowing,
Only the rags of the hand-me-downs
With the grey wind blowing.
24 November 1974
poem by David Lewis Paget
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Indian Weavers
WEAVERS, weaving at break of day,
Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . .
Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild,
We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night,
Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . .
Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green,
We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still,
What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . .
White as a feather and white as a cloud,
We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.
poem by Sarojini Naidu
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Couple...
she is weaving
she has an intricate design inside her mind
and for now
i do not see it
she is secretive and
does not want to be asked
just like me
in my own privacy
i am also weaving
stories of my own
and the plot is complicated
in the manner of
whodunnit.
we are the weavers
inside this room and it is not
so well lighted by the
moon
we seldom discuss
what is missing
we decide not to talk about
what mess we are in
tomorrow morning
we shall weave again
under the heat of the sun
we are never burned
never charred
tonight we shall be in this room
again
we shall weave again
the designs in our minds
our fingers entwine
on matters sanguine.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Weaver
All day, all day, round the clacking net
The weaver's fingers fly:
Gray dreams like frozen mists are set
In the hush of the weaver's eye;
A voice from the dusk is calling yet,
'Oh, come away, or we die!'
Without is a horror of hosts that fight,
That rest not, and cease not to kill,
The thunder of feet and the cry of the flight,
A slaughter weird and shrill;
Gray dreams are set in the weaver's sight,
The weaver is weaving still.
'Come away, dear soul, come away or we die;
Hear'st thou the moan and the rush! Come away;
The people are slain at the gates, and they fly;
The kind God hath left them this day;
The battle-axes cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and slay.'
'Nay, wife, what boots to fly from pain,
When pain is wherever we fly?
And death is a sweeter thing than a chain:
'Tis sweeter to sleep than to cry,
The kind God giveth the days that wane;
If the kind God hath said it, I die.'
And the weaver wove, and the good wife fled,
And the city was made a tomb,
And a flame that shook from the rocks overhead
Shone into that silent room,
And touched like a wide red kiss on the dead
Brown weaver slain by his loom.
Yet I think that in some dim shadowy land,
Where no suns rise or set,
Where the ghost of a whilom loom doth stand
Round the dusk of its silken net,
Forever flyeth his shadowy hand,
And the weaver is weaving yet.
poem by Archibald Lampman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Circe's Grief
In the end, I made myself
Known to your wife as
A god would, in her own house, in
Ithaca, a voice
Without a body: she
Paused in her weaving, her head turning
First to the right, then left
Though it was hopeless of course
To trace that sound to any
Objective source: I doubt
She will return to her loom
With what she knows now. When
You see her again, tell her
This is how a god says goodbye:
If I am in her head forever
I am in your life forever.
poem by Louise Gluck
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
At Ithaca
Over and back,
the long waves crawl
and track the sand with foam;
night darkens, and the sea
takes on that desperate tone
of dark that wives put on
when all their love is done.
Over and back,
the tangled thread falls slack,
over and up and on;
over and all is sewn;
now while I bind the end,
I wish some fiery friend
would sweep impetuously
these fingers from the loom.
My weary thoughts
play traitor to my soul,
just as the toil is over;
swift while the woof is whole,
turn now, my spirit, swift,
and tear the pattern there,
the flowers so deftly wrought,
the borders of sea blue,
the sea-blue coast of home.
The web was over-fair,
that web of pictures there,
enchantments that I thought
he had, that I had lost;
weaving his happiness
within the stitching frame,
weaving his fire and frame,
I thought my work was done,
I prayed that only one
of those that I had spurned
might stoop and conquer this
long waiting with a kiss.
But each time that I see
my work so beautifully
inwoven and would keep
the picture and the whole,
Athene steels my soul.
Slanting across my brain,
I see as shafts of rain
his chariot and his shafts,
I see the arrows fall,
I see the lord who moves
like Hector lord of love,
I see him matched with fair
bright rivals, and I see
those lesser rivals flee.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Unique Tapestries
A beautiful jersey with a cable pattern illustrating Many
Worlds Theory by weaving infinite threads of parallel
alternative events into cables spiralling rhythmically
in colour, sound and form
Evoking feeling and emotion, influencing choices which
change the future and past, creating unique tapestries on
the loom of the gods, threads made up of consciousness
shimmering in and out of existence
History is not an unfolding of preset events, but it is shaped
by every thought, plan, desire, wish, vision and dream; every
pattern is formed by free innovation, the alternative universes
of possible choices
Create the time-loop cables in reality’s tapestry, threads fork
innumerable times before converging again to continue the
enchanting patterns that keep gods and men staring
at the infinite possibility of probabilities…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
When You Close Your Eyes
If you see me bleed,
Without coming to my comfort to aid.
Will you bare the wound,
Upon the nakedness of your consciousness...
Yet to come.
Will you do what the others have done?
Run?
Or will the unhealing scars inflict,
Upon your mind and sit?
To stitch together cries in silence.
Tormenting a sleeplessness.
Weaving to knit with relentlessness.
When you close your eyes,
Anytime...
Your thoughts of me,
Are not expected to arrive.
Or leave to complete this pattern.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
No Common Thread
If no common thread is to be found,
To begin weaving a chemistry.
It would be pointless to continue a search,
For a seamstress,
Or tailor
To design something fitting and suitable,
To taste!
When a pattern unfit...
Will never be customed made,
To meet the needs
Of what already is unmatched.
This is not a consideration.
This is a cancellation waiting to happen.
Another selection is recommended,
Before any order takes place!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mother
Over land and over sea
She reaches out to me
weaving and threading the loom
from womb to womb
Slaves and merchants
pilgrims and thieves
felt her hand and charted skies
by following her moon
Mother
Mother
Mother
Some came and built with stone and bone
some planted fields on promised land
and harvested their dreams
song performed by by Cyndi Lauper from Sisters Of Avalon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Truth In Deathbed
if you brought the
truth about me in your deathbed
do not worry
i am not interested to know
i make myself
i weave
my lies too
i am the spider weaving
my own house
that traps
all my prey and i have learned
to eat them all
sleep well mother
do not tell me what heaven
is all about
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Great and Little Weavers
The great and the little weavers,
They neither rest nor sleep.
They work in the height and the glory,
They toil in the dark and the deep.
The rainbow melts with the shower,
The white-thorn falls in the gust,
The cloud-rose dies into shadow,
The earth-rose dies into dust.
But they have not faded forever,
They have not flowered in vain,
For the great and the little weavers
Are weaving under the rain.
Recede the drums of the thunder
When the Titan chorus tires,
And the bird-song piercing the sunset
Faints with the sunset fires,
But the trump of the storm shall fail not,
Nor the flute-cry fail of the thrush,
For the great and the little weavers
Are weaving under the hush.
The comet flares into darkness,
The flame dissolves into death,
The power of the star and the dew
They glow and are gone like a breath,
But ere the old wonder is done
Is the new-old wonder begun,
For the great and the little weavers
Are weaving under the sun.
The domes of an empire crumble,
A child's hope dies in tears;
Time rolls them away forgotten
In the silt of the flooding years;
The creed for which men died smiling
Decays to a beldame's curse;
The love that made lips immortal
Drags by in a tattered hearse.
But not till the search of the moon
Sees the last white face uplift,
And over the bones of the kindreds
The bare sands dredge and drift,
Shall Love forget to return
And lift the unused latch,
(In his eyes the look of the traveller,
On his lips the foreign catch),
Nor the mad song leave men cold,
Nor the high dream summon in vain, --
For the great and the little weavers
Are weaving in heart and brain.
poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Saracen woman!
I'll see you there
weaving in the rock
turning the wheel
continuous and numbing
using your hands sticking your fingers
weaving yarns in his unfinished story
trapped, lonely
I'll see you there
No need to be
Mother or Wife
An enchanted Moorish
sitting on her stone bewitched
guarding his treasure for herself
forgotten, dreamy
I'll see you there
causing nightmares
singing their songs
telling their stories
leaving their children in the window
just to see the pine tree rocking
no chances, forced
I'll see you there
passionate for your lost love
being what you dont want to be
draw into wires spinning
sitting on her tinny place and
embroidering!
Goodbye Mom! !
poem by Mirna Morgan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Return
Once more. Look: a spent old scarecrow
shrivelled face
straw-dry shadow
swaying like a leaf
bending and swaying over books.
Once more. Look: a spent old crone
weaving and weaving
knitted stockings
mouth full of curses
lips forever mumbling curses.
There’s the household cat
has not moved since I left,
still dreaming by the stove
playing cat and mouse
in his dream.
And as ever, in darkness
the spider weaves
hanging its web
full of swollen fly corpses
in the dark west corner.
You’ve not changed:
All old as the hills.
Nothing new.
I’ll join you, old cronies!
Together we’ll rot till we stink.
poem by Hayyim Nahman Bialik
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
How Emptiness Is More Felt
noon time love
after,
sleep creeps
on the
stained white
linens
the hand falls
on the side
of the bed
without her
breasts anymore
thoughts begin
waking up
weaving more
questions on
the ceiling
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!