Buried Love
by Sara Teasdale
I have come to bury
Love Beneath a tree,
In the forest tall and black
Where none can see.
I shall put no flowers at his head,
Nor stone at his feet,
For the mouth I loved so much
Was bittersweet.
I shall go no more to his grave,
For the woods are cold.
I shall gather as much of joy
As my hands can hold.
I shall stay all day in the sun
Where the wide winds blow, --
But oh, I shall cry at night
When none will know.

The weaver

The Weaver,

by Anonymous

My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,

I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily.

Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride

Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.

Not till the loom is silent, and the shuttles cease to fly,

Will God unroll the canvas, and explain the reasons why

The dark threads are as needful in the skillful weaver's hand

As threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.

He knows, He loves, He cares, Nothing this truth can dim.

He gives His very best to those Who leave the choice with Him.