The world is like a tapestry to me,

Immense and wonderful, where interwoven

With art most consummate by masterhand

I see a maze of beings and of things.

I can but see a little at a time,

My sight is limited, the view is vast,

The picture disconcertingly complex.

But often, here and there, a brilliant spot,

A woman’s figure in life’s tapestry

Attracts my gaze and holds me in its spell.

And, like a child that’s crying for the moon,

My hands would grasp that which delights mine eye,

To press it fondly to my happy heart.

Alas, the world, as tapestry and tomb,

Will not give up its own.