The Loom of Time

Man's life is laid in the loom of time
  To a pattern he does not see,
While the weavers work and the shuttles fly
   Till the dawn of eternity.

Some shuttles are filled with silver threads
   And some with threads of gold,
While often but the darker hues
   Are all that they may hold.

But the weaver watches with skillful eye
   Each shuttle fly to and fro,
And sees the pattern so deftly wrought
   As the loom moves sure and slow.

God surely planned the pattern:
   Each thread, the dark and fair,
Is chosen by His master skill
   And placed in the web with care.

He only knows its beauty,
   And guides the shuttles which hold
The threads so unattractive,
   As well as the threads of gold.

Not till each loom is silent,
   And the shuttles cease to fly,
Shall God reveal the pattern
   And explain the reason why

The dark threads were as needful
   In the weaver's skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
   For the pattern which He planned.

                          ~ Unknown

Leisure

What is this life, if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare,

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass,

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

        ~ W. H. Davies