I’D like to lift the threads of life And weave them on a loom
And make a pattern beautiful,
As any day in June.
I’d put ten thousand violets
And shimmering leaves of green,
Around the edge and over it,
To hide each vulgar seam.
Because, death brushed me with dark wings,
Reluctant passed me by,
I take the threads of life again
And weave and smile and sigh.
But if I had a............