Indian Weavers

WEAVERS, weaving at break of day, 

Why do you weave a garment so gay? . . . 

Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, 

We weave the robes of a new-born child.

Weavers, weaving at fall of night, 

Why do you weave a garment so bright? . . . 

Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, 

We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.

Weavers, weaving solemn and still, 

What do you weave in the moonlight chill? . . . 

White as a feather and white as a cloud, 

We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.