Indian Weavers

by
 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? .
.
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White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.

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