[Written for the Sentinel]


Some little measure of the web of life
Is ours to weave with colors passing fair;
We take the threads into our willing hands
And scan the pattern clear before us there.

We toss the shuttle and rejoice to see
The gleaming strands pass swiftly into place;
All eagerly we hasten with the task,
Ignoring oft the pattern we should trace.

Then all too soon we find threads broken, frayed,
As snarls and tangles our scant powers elude;
The loom falls idle, while we mourn and weep
As though thereby to mend our failure crude.

February 16, 1924

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