Weaving

W E are weaving a web in the loom of life, its shuttle
     is going free;
While we aim to mend the broken threads, in the garment
     the knot we see;
And while we may smooth and press it down, in the face of
     all our pains,
It is there as a scar where the mirror fell, and there as a scar
     remains.

There are summer suits that please the eye and the make
     has a famous brand
And the finish is touched with a velvet turn, by a deft and a
     clever hand,
And the knot in the thread may be hidden well, but a time
     when the day is bright
And the way seems smooth, it is then I fear that the knot
     may come to light.

There are fabrics we have from the make-up stock, worth
     little on land or sea-
They serve as patches, before and aft; sort o' steerage it
     seems to me;
Yes, ballast we term it and wisely too, for the heavy seas of
     life;
Though recording knots surge on and on, as tides meet the
     tempest strife.

There are knots in the oak, its sturdy growth, with a giant-
     strength for good
Tossed its head in disdain but could not refrain from pro-
     ducing a knot of wood
And when in the mansion in after years, to a high estate it
     came,
Yet Varnish or polish could not erase; it was there, and
     against the grain.

So the complication of knotty threads, in an intricate group
     we find
That shuttle along -through the loom of life, and the knots
     are hard to wind,
And sadly the ties, where knots are made, will slip and they
     often show

And they hurt the price in a garment good, which the world
     has learned to know.