Verse > Anthologies > George Willis Cooke, ed. > The Poets of Transcendentalism: An Anthology
George Willis Cooke, comp.  The Poets of Transcendentalism: An Anthology.  1903.
By Helen Hunt Jackson (1830–1885)
LIKE a blind spinner in the sun,
      I tread my days;
I know that all the threads will run
      Appointed ways;
I know each day will bring its task;        5
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        10
My hand the thread, and said, “Since you
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,        15
      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,        20
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        25
      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.        30
But whether this be seal or sign
      Within, without,
It matters not. The bond divine
      I never doubt.
I know he set me here, and still,        35
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,        40
And bring God’s message in the sun,
“Thou poor blind spinner, work is done.”

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