If you are looking for The Loom of Life Part 2 you are coming to the right place.
The Loom of Life is a Webnovel created by Cotton Noe.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Oh, happy, sad, mysterious, wondrous soul!
Imprisoned in a living dungeon deep The fates have bound thee; but they can not keep For ay that spirit in their dark control Who hear’st the music of the spheres that roll Through silent time; those beauteous…o…b.. that sweep Through s.p.a.ce and glitter in the boundless deep, Will yet thy blind, benighted life console.
What sin didst thou commit, or whom offend?
That doomed thee to a carnal cell so gross That scarce a hint of what thou really art Has ever reached the world,–who couldst transcend In matchless music, purged of all thy dross, The great Beethoven or divine Mozart.
A SONNET OF THE SEASON
The carol in my heart I send to you: It comes from out the depths of brooding time To cheer and bless in every place and clime; To purge the false, to chasten and subdue; To lift the drooping life, inspire the true To n.o.bler deeds and thoughts of love sublime.
This anthem–which I sing in sonnet rhyme– Judean shepherds heard and angels knew!
And now we fear no longer war’s alarms, For red-eyed Mars has fled at last our home: Christ took the little children in his arms And blessed them, saying, Suffer them to come To me that all the sons of men may find My kingdom here within the child-like mind.
O lyric muse, thou didst not tune alone The lyre that loving Orpheus smote With subtle touch, who struck the golden note That pierced dread Pluto’s heart of stone, And won again Eurydice his own; Nor yet Erate’s lute, nor Sappho’s throat That thrilled the ear in Grecian isles remote, Where Homer sang, and Art had built her throne: But thou, Euterpe, touched blind Milton’s tongue, And swept the thousand chords of Shakespeare’s soul; Woke Byron from his hours of idle dream, And then he sang mankind a deathless song.
But thou at last didst reach the lyric goal Of art in Tennyson’s immortal theme.
_To F. W. B. Family_
Those scarlet days come back to me to-night Across the span of many happy years– Dreams, haunted by the music of the spheres, And glowing skies of gold and chrysolite.
The world of science bursting on my sight, And words of wisdom falling on my ears, The rhythmic thought of poets, priests, and seers, Wrought in my life a spell of wild delight.
Not all: three figures–Faith and Hope and Love– I see them still through years of mist and haze– Hope crowned with light, and Faith of G.o.dly ken; And Love was like a meek unconscious dove.
Dear G.o.d, although I count those scarlet days, To-night I would not have them back again.
HER EYES ARE BROWN
Her eyes are brown, oh, Edith’s eyes are brown!
I will not boast the midnight of her hair, Nor yet because her radiant cheek is fair, And like the touch of autumn’s thistle down; I will not swear I have not seen her frown; She may be rich and proud and debonair, For aught I know, I’m sure I do not care: But oh, her eyes, her eyes are Edith’s crown!
I’ve gazed upon the stars of northern skies And breathed the perfume of the southern breeze; I’ve listened to the boom of far-off seas On mystic sh.o.r.es; I’ve seen the full moon rise Through branch and bloom of old magnolia trees!
There’s nothing like the thrill of Edith’s eyes!
The shouts of happy boys he does not hear, Nor knows that wretched men must toil for bread; The tragedy of life he has not read, Or deems it but the comedy of fear: He never lifts his eyes above the ground To gaze upon the glittering world of stars; The poet’s richest music only mars The rasping of the locust’s strident sound.
And yet I’ve never seen a wilder light Glow in the beauteous eyes of dawning love, Than flashes from this strange man’s soul at sight Of some rare flower he finds in mountain cove: Mere fungus, or the poisonous, dank mushroom, Enchants him more than rich magnolia bloom!
_(To H. H. T.)_
O soul responsive to the subtlest thought That flashes o’er the mind’s electric wire, Or ever swept the strings of fancy’s lyre To music learned in schools where Shakespeare taught: O thou who knowest the springs whence Sappho caught Love’s br.i.m.m.i.n.g cup that did her song inspire, Yet dost my plain, unlettered muse admire, Who lived in better days when maidens wrought–
To thee, I dedicate my fondest rhymes In memory of happy days of yore, Together on the c.u.mberland, where Ruth, The charming rustic maid of olden times First won our love, less for her lack of lore, Than for her sweet simplicity and truth.
NEARING THE MERIDIAN
_(To M. E. W.)_
I dream to-night of happy childhood days; I see two humble homes and thrill with joy; The years come back when I was but a boy, And you had ringlets for the G.o.ds to praise: The old Old Swing, the fields of golden maize; The moving pictures in the clouds above; The mating birds, their nests, their songs of love– All this, dear Lord, through years of mist and haze!
And then I turn and look beyond the Shade, And those who wrought for us are waiting there: Our mothers with their crowns of silver hair, And radiant smiles of love that will not fade; Our fathers with the keys to all the creeds Are there still strong in faith and pure in deeds.
_(To the Canterbury Club)_
The merry band that started long ago Upon their journey to a-Becket’s shrine, Were happy that a poet’s pen divine Inspired by all a genial wit can know, Or sympathetic human heart bestow, Recorded in immortal rhythmic line, As sweet as breath of old Provencal wine, Their pilgrim tales and songs of joy and woe.
We start to-night upon our pilgrimage, Who worship at a holier shrine than they– The living temple of the sacred muse: May she who is our patron saint infuse, Illume our souls; and raise some Pen, I pray, To leave the world a n.o.ble heritage.