by Helen Hunt Jackson
Like a blind spinner in the sun,
I tread my days;
I know that all the threads will run
I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.
I do not know the use or name
Of that I spin;
I only know that some one came,
And laid within
My hand the thread and said,
Are blind, but one thing you can do.
Sometimes the threads so rough and fast
And tangled fly,
I know wild storms are sweeping past,
And fear that I
Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.
I know not why, but I am sure
That tint and place,
In some great fabric to endure
Past time and race
My threads will have; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accurst.
I think, perhaps, this trust has sprung
From one short word
Said over me when I was young, --
So young, I heard
It, knowing not that God's name signed
My brow, and sealed me his, though blind.
But whether this be seal or sign
It matters not. The bond divine
I never doubt.
I know he set me here, and still,
And glad, and blind, I wait His will;
But listen, listen, day by day,
To hear their tread
Who bear the finished web away,
And cut the thread,
And bring God's message in the sun,
Thou poor blind spinner, work is done.
Roberts Brothers, Boston