The Artifice of Eternity       

The spinning fates

Were kind to Yeats:

They cut his thread

When he was dead:

But not before.


Early he wove

Yellow and mauve

Into a cloth

Which every moth

Easily tore.


He moved his loom

To a public room

Where he could find

The art to wind

His skeins once more.


Then with new skill

He worked until

The pattern showed

How time had flowed

Across the floor.


The weave was tight

Against the light:

The strict design

Of perfect line

Was what he saw.


The thread was spun:

The web was done:

The dyes were fast:

The shroud would last

Which now he wore.