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I

Thy fate is seeking thee,
Fear not! Fear not!
Nor hither, thither run, with puny strain
Of frenzied fingers on this clos├Ęd door,
Or that, to find her. Leave thy worse than vain
And feverish seeking; fret thy soul no more,
Nor vex the heavens with ineffectual cries;
Fate will adjust her perfect harmonies
And weave thee in. There is both time and space
For thy one little thread, it shall have place,
Though it be gold, or may be dull of hue,
Or silken smooth--whatever thou hast spun
Be sure in the great woof shall duly run.

 

Not one is lost, however poor to see,
Or frail soe'er, or coarse or brokenly
Creep the dull fibers through thy faithless hands,
They counted are; the Weaver understands,
And with a skill and patience all divine,
He weaveth, weaveth, weaveth thine and mine,
And ever human thread, or short or long,
Or golden, silvern, serge, or weak or strong:
Not one is left or lost, or thrown away,
But finds its own fit place some certain day.

II

O timorous soul, fear not!
Nor stand thou by
With whitened quivering lip, and tearful eye;
Nor anxious question the great master plan;
As, how 't will end, or why it this way ran.
Why crossed that fatal thread entangling thine,
Confusing destiny's most clear design.
Or why thine runneth not in parallel
With this one harmonizing well, so well;
Or what means these strange lines a-gleam of late.
Vex not thyself with question. Work and wait.

 

The woof is large, thine is a little part,
Let what thou doest stand for what thou art.
Spin thy plain thread--'tis wanted soon or late;
No friend will seek thee out so sure as Fate.
The weft is large; it looketh dim and dun;
Fear not, the Weaver works till set of sun.
When dawns the light of fair eternity
The matchless great design revealed will be,
And it shall answer thee!