An old man, hatred glooms,
Weaves destiny--Dark is his face--
Upon the rim of chaos. Never mild,
His breath, now hot, now cold: a wind shrill-wild!
With somber threads he weaves--No trace
Of brightness from his looms.
Then love comes softly; love, a little child,
Brings skeins of sun with Royal grace.
No more the fear of doom's
Designing, for there blooms
The Rose of Peace ... Earth primrose-aisled!
The old man weeps ... yields love his sovereign place.
