The Shuttle went flying
With sympathy sighing,
While it shot all the gold weft with threadings of woe.
There was murmured complaining,
The Shuttle arraigning—
That grief, with the joy, was unwound in the throw.
A whispered regretting:—
“No blessing forgetting,
God knoweth thy needs—it is His to bestow:—
From LOVE I’m receiving
The woof I am weaving.”
The Shuttle’s reproof was subduing and low,
And, blent with Time’s beating,
I heard it repeating
The lesson it taught in love’s tenderest flow.
Aye, softly it chanted this simple refrain—
“’Tis wisdom that mingles the sorrow and pain.
The sunlight, that gilds, with its glory the earth,
Would blight with its blaze, but for clouds and the rain,
And lives would be arid and smitten with dearth
If beamed on forever with joy and mirth—
In blessing I weave in the sorrow and pain.”