A lady, very old and rich, Sat in her castle with a golden stitch; She wove and wove, till twilight came, With the singing of an evening flame. She wove blue skies and white curled seas, Curled seas of silver against the trees; She wove bright moons and stars too, A tapestry of cheerfulness, you see too. She wooed and wooed till dusk’s decline, Each stroke of grace, each delicate line. Till the waves of a hundred evening skies, In her loom of gold and silver rise!
- Elizabeth Barrett Browning