I leave my toil; the tapestry is done.
My heart is weary with the weary years, -
Years that have gone since those glad early days
When all my life was eagerness and joy.
Oh, then, when first Ulysses left our shore
And sank beyond my sight beneath the stars,
I watched the aching distance day by day
And hoped each morn would herald his return.
But now 't is late; my heart grows old alone;
Alone and sorrowful I end my years.
For what is life for me when he is gone?
A task, a weaving toil from dawn to dark,
To ravel all the threads at eventime.
And who would be a woman but to toil,
Weaving the careful pattern day by day
Which nightfall must undo? And after that
To leave behind her but an empty loom
Whereon another maid must take her task?
The wind sweeps sadly from the distant crags;
The stars are misty with a veil of tears;
The sea birds rest, each calling first its mate;
'T is but my heart that wakes and weeps alone.
And yet my toil would be one round of joy, -
My life complete, if but my lord would come.