Weavers All

Warp and Woof and Tangle,--
Weavers of Webs are we.
Living and dying--and mightier dead,
For the shuttle, once sped, is sped--is sped;--
Weavers of Webs are we.

White, and Black, and Hodden-gray,--
Weavers of Webs are we.
To every weaver one golden strand
Is given in trust by the Master-Hand;--
Weavers of Webs are we.

And that we weave, we know not,--
Weavers of Webs are we.
The threads we see, but the pattern is known
To the Master-Weaver alone, alone;--
Weavers of Webs are we.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

William Arthur Dunkerley, better known by his pen name John Oxenham, was an English journalist, novelist, and poet. He was a prolific writer in the early 20th century, producing a wide range of literary works including poetry, hymns, and novels. His works often reflected Christian themes and were popular during his time. Dunkerley also contributed to the establishment of the Boys' Brigade, a notable youth organization in the UK. His legacy includes a significant contribution to both literature and social causes.

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham)

Burden-Bearers

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

The Bells Of Stepan Iline

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

Through Me Only

William Arthur Dunkerley (John Oxenham), Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

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 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-axe cleaves, and the foemen cry,
And the red swords swing and slay."

"Nay, wife, what boots it to fly from pain,
When p...

Archibald Lampman

Weave In, Weave In, My Hardy Life

Weave in! weave in, my hardy life!
Weave yet a soldier strong and full, for great campaigns to come;
Weave in red blood! weave sinews in, like ropes! the senses, sight weave in!
Weave lasting sure! weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant weave! tire not!
(We know not what the use, O life! nor know the aim, the end, nor really aught we know;
But know the work, the need goes on, and shall go on, the death-envelop'd march of peace as well as war goes on;)
For great campaigns of peace the same, the wiry threads to weave;
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.

Walt Whitman

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 -
    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 overlays it
    With shapes of love and beauty.
    The loom stops short!
    The pattern's out
    You're alone i...

Edgar Lee Masters

The Weaver Of Magic

Weave cunningly the web
Of twilight, O thou subtle-fingered Eve!
And at the slow day's ebb
With small blue stars the purple curtain weave.
If any wind there be,
Bid it but breathe lightly as woodland violets o'er the sea;
If any moon, be it no more than a white fluttering feather.
Call the last birds together.

O Eve, and let no wisp
Of day's distraction thine enchantment mar;
Thy soft spell lisp
And lure the sweetness down of each blue star.
Then let that low moan be
A while more easeful, trembling remote and strange, far oversea;
So shall the easeless heart of love rest then, or only sigh,
Hearing the swallows cry!

John Frederick Freeman

Answer To Dr. Sheridan's Prologue, And To Dr. Swift's Epilogue. In Behalf Of The Distressed Weavers. By Dr. Delany.

Femineo generi tribuantur.

The Muses, whom the richest silks array,
Refuse to fling their shining gowns away;
The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades,
And gives each colour to the pictured maids;
Far above mortal dress the sisters shine,
Pride in their Indian Robes, and must be fine.
And shall two bards in concert rhyme, and huff
And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff?
    The player in mimic piety may storm,
Deplore the Comb, and bid her heroes arm:
The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,
May curse the belles and chintzes of the age:
Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share,
And spin her thread of life in service of the fair.
    The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast,
Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last;
Like y...

Jonathan Swift

The Loom

My brother, the god, and I grow sick
Of heaven's heights.
We plunge to the valley to hear the tick
Of days and nights.
We walk and loiter around the Loom
To see, if we may,
The Hand that smashes the beam in the gloon
To the shuttle's play;
Who grows the wool, who cards and spins,
Who clips and ties;
For the storied weave of the Gobelins,
Who draughts and dyes.

But whether you stand or walk around
You shall but hear
A murmuring life, as it were the sound
Of bees or a sphere.
No Hand is seen, but still you may feel
A pulse in the thread,
And thought in every lever and wheel
Where the shuttle sped,
Dripping the colors, as crushed and urged -
Is it cochineal? -
Shot from the shuttle, woven and merged
A tale to reveal.
...

Edgar Lee Masters