The Old Man Weeps

An old man, hatred glooms,

Weaves destiny--Dark is his face--

Upon the rim of chaos. Never mild,

His breath, now hot, now cold: a wind shrill-wild!

With somber threads he weaves--No trace

Of brightness from his looms.

Then love comes softly; love, a little child,

Brings skeins of sun with Royal grace.

No more the fear of doom's

Designing, for there blooms

The Rose of Peace ... Earth primrose-aisled!

The old man weeps ... yields love his sovereign place.