A Weaving Out Of Time

Theirs is a strange art, the weaving of

Air and sound into a weightless tapestry

Hanging in the church, a vibrating cloth free

Of sorrows that clothes men with God's love

　

Strange, strange is the shuttle of sound that moves

In and out, out and in around the key

Thread of beats in time, the time that he

Draws to weave a cloth of sound for another

　

This is the strangest art, weaving of time

And sound into a cloth one cannot feel

With the hands; we can only touch

It with the ears and soul

　

A rime is a poor needle with which to thread such

A cloth

How can such a needle seal ?