A Contest for Metrical Rhyming Poetry. |
The Weaver's Night The silver moon begins to rise, To claim the dark and hollow skies. A spider spins a silk design, With every thread a perfect line. She works within the shadow's reach, With lessons only night can teach. The dew will cling to every strand, Like diamonds scattered on the land. But when the sun begins to glow, The morning wind begins to blow. The masterpiece is swept away, To start again at close of day. |