My Song ...

That black thread spins
Behind in front and near,
In every sigh,
In every smile,
In tears, prayers and hymns...

Too strong to server,
Errant or sacred.
I'd rather not break it:
Yet always wherever
It's with me for ever:
In a book that's open,
Or binding the flowers;
Or sliding, shimmering
Like webs in Autumn
That gradually fray,
Then grow again
A link in the chain.

I'll win in the end
Not sob like a child:
Hand me the cup and wreath !...
I put on that crown
And I drained the lees:
They called me a clown !