The sea would flow no longer,
It wearied after change,
It called its tides and breakers in,
From where they might range. [...]

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake [...]

In the light of the silent stars that shine on the struggling sea,
In the weary cry of the wind and the whisper of flower and tree,
Under the breath of laughter, deep in the tide of tears,
I hear the Loom of the Weaver that weaves the Web of Years. [...]

I will paint you a sign, rumseller,
And hang it above your door;
A truer and better signboard
Than ever you had before.

"Son," said my mother,
When I was knee-high,
"You've need of clothes to cover you,
And not a rag have I.