Workers Of Magic
Immured in the downy cocoon
A marvelous artisan spins
With threads like the beams of the moon
So gossamer fine. Have the Djinns
Who dream in the mulberry trees,
O weaver beyond compare,
Bewitched with the shimmer of orient seas
Your fabric so lustrous and fair?
Toiler imprisoned who weaves and weaves
A silken glory from naught but leaves.
To the mollusc, tormented, which holds
The irritant sand in his shell,
What radiant vision unfolds
Invoked by the mermaiden’s spell?
As he fashions that shape, and imbues
It with colors he never has seen,
With opalescent and rainbow hues,
A pearl with the fairylike sheen
Of the sea. O artist whom fate condemns
To gild with beauty this queen of gems.
In his desolate attic alone
In the gloom of the midnight hour,
The poet, despondent, unknown
Is thrilled by that wizardly power
That the silk worm and pearl oyster feel
The urge to create! And his brain
Like the anvil resounding to steel
In a minstrelsy vibrant with pain,
Sends sparkles blazing through singing lines
As the verse with his burning thought combines.