‘Tis true; a thousand years for the search of
The Rainbow’s gold gives man his sweetest dream;
More even than his heart’s filling: his dove
Holds not his life’s thread: a trailing, loose, seam.
His arrow strikes her olive, the wheat stalk
Bends to the sickle. Consider this gold’s
Worth--not one silver, yet grips man’s life. Talk
Not--though but seed, he plants more life: behold!
One fibrous strand, when a prodigal,
Has no purpose as when through an eyelet.
She weaves it to life, for her life; she’ll call,
He’ll frown, cut each thread: no love!--his heart’s set.
Little she is, little he thinks of her;
An open seam, two split hearts for ‘er.