i’d like to lift the threads of life

and weave them on a loom

and make a pattern beautiful,

as any day in june.

i’d put ten thousand violets

and shimmering leaves of green,

around the edge and over it,

to hide each vulgar seam.

because, death brushed me with dark wings,

reluctant passed me by,

i take the threads of life again

and weave and smile and sigh.

but if i had a god-like power

omnipotence of mind,

to put the tho’t of suffering

and death a league behind.

life would be violets to me

much sweeter than a dream.

the pattern on my loom would show

no raw and ghastly seam.{37}

but then methinks it is because

of what the looms disclose.

the breath of life is sweeter

than the fragrance of a rose.