Jane O'Grady

Grey old lady, sat by the sea

With her nimble fingers, weaving,

Jane O’Grady, seventy three

In the world that she was leaving.

Hummed sweet honey from virgin lips

In the way of the wind, sad-sighing,

Carried the song from her fingertips

To the day that she lay dying.

 

Shuttle sang in the early breeze

To the tune of life’s sweet sorrow:

“God, I’m weary of weaving love,

But I’ll not be here tomorrow.”

 

Grey old lady, worked with a will

On the shawl of life’s sweet pattern,

Fingers stilled in the dawning chill

As the world turned once too often.

Nevermore will she weave the love

That we borrowed, all unknowing,

Only the rags of the hand-me-downs

With the grey wind blowing.

 

David Lewis Paget