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.

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