The noon creeps slow,
And wraps the windless world in heat and glare,
And droning beetles stir alone the air;
While, soft and low,
A chant of women weaving at the loom
Falls on the ear from some cool darkened room,
Where flits the restless shuttle to and fro
Beneath bare arms that glimmer in the gloom.
A fresh clear chant
About frail clouds that sea-sprites weave in vain,
And woven rainbows, harbingers of rain
For things that pant;
About Arachne and her wondrous woof;
About grim Time who weaves white hairs in proof
That men grow old, and that life’s thread grows scant,
Weave, women, weave! still Hesperus holds aloof;
Still shoots the sun
His random shafts through leafy shade to rouse
The shepherd up, who seeks yet thicker boughs;
Still peep and run
The bright green lizard on the heated stones;
Still through the glare the whirling beetle drones;
Still noontide sleep may end sweet dreams begun.
Marsyas, resume thy flute. What say its tones?