The years of man are the looms of God, let down from the place of the sun,
Wherein we all are weaving, till the mystic web is
done,
Weaving blindly but weaving surely, each for himself his fate;
We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.
Weaving blindly but weaving surely, each for himself his fate;
We may not see how the right side looks, we can only weave and wait.
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