What were his dreams who wove this coloured shawl—
The grey hard-bitten weaver gaunt and dour
Out of whose grizzled memory, even as a flower
Out of bleak winter at young April's call
In the old tradition of flowers breaks into bloom,
Blossomed the ancient intricate design
Of softly-glowing hues and exquisite line—
What were his dreams, crouched at his cottage-loom?

What were her dreams, the laughing April lass,
Who first, in the flowering of young delight
With parted lips and eager tilted head
And shining eyes, about her shoulders white
Drew the soft fabric of kindling green and red,
Before her candle-lighted looking-glass?