by M.E.Mixer

With wondrous skill, in the crowded mill,

The spinner her shuttle plies,

And watches the web with fear and dread

As it forms beneath her eyes;

For well she knows that one rotten thread,

Inwove in these even bands,

Will be traced through the fabric far and near,

As the work of her careless hands.

In the mill of life, full of noise and strife,

We each have a weaver’s part,

And the web of each day, by the passions play,

Is wove with a curious art;

But if, false to ourselves and our Master’s name,

We fashion the fabric thin,

And with its tissue blend the sable threads

Of slothfulness and sin,

To our own account will the mischief come,

And take from each joy its hoarded sum.

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