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Updated: June 8, 2025
"It's a thread of silver so thin that it can't be seen and yet it is so strong that it can easily bear your weight." "But I can't climb all the way down," said Kernel Cob. "You won't have to," said Edelweiss. "All you have to do is to catch hold of the end of the silver thread and hang on to it, and, as Silverfloss weaves the thread it gets longer and longer, until you have reached the Earth.
Between now and then, time weaves a veil, misty with tears of our sorrow, and diamond dusted with the bright laughter of our joy, and as we look through it, on the path that weaves our footsteps, the sunshine and shadows, that have fallen thereon, mingle and soften each other, so that neither the brilliant light of one nor the saddening shade of the other can pain our eyes, that look back, in wistful, happy memory.
A ceaseless round of ever-active life weaves the forest scenery of the tropics into one monotonous whole, of which the component parts exhibit in detail untold variety and beauty. To the genial influence of ever-present moisture and heat we must ascribe the infinite variety of the trees of these forests.
"Not much," said the raven; "only in a hundred years or so we shall be very genteel and private, the trees will be so thick." "How is that?" said Lady Greensleeves. "Oh!" said the raven, "have you not heard how the king of the forest fairies laid a spell on two lords, who were travelling through his kingdom to see the old woman that weaves her own hair?
Consider that in times of great excitement the soul literally blazes and burns, exhaling emotions and thoughts as a planet exhales light and heat. Wondrous the power of the loom newly invented, that with marvelous swiftness weaves in silk figures of flowers and trees and birds.
Then wise Telemachus answered him, saying: 'In other case I would bid thee go even to our own house; for there is no lack of cheer for strangers, but now would it be worse for thyself, forasmuch as I shall be away nor would my mother see thee. For she comes not often in sight of the wooers in the house, but abides apart from them in her upper chamber, and weaves at her web.
The player-composer weaves the glamour of such a dream, and the hearer finds himself strolling in imagination through the moonlit garden, listening to the birds, the waters, and the rustling leaves, while the stately beat of the minuet comes throbbing through it all, calling up the vision of gayly dressed cavaliers and beautiful ladies fantastically moving to the tune.
Dredge's mind takes in only a bit at a time, but the bit stays, and other bits are joined to it, in a hard mosaic of fact, of which imagination weaves the pattern.
"When you sell your wheat, Do you sell your love?" The embroidered rose Lies on my glove! "My heart, Monsieur, Will never rove, I have promised it To my own true love." The embroidered rose Lies on my glove. "For me he braves The wind and the rain; For me he weaves A silver chain." On my 'broidered glove. Lies the rose again.
She who makes for us the banner under which we fare forth is the true Woman for us. We must tear away the disguise of her who weaves our net of enchantment at home, and know her for what she is. We must beware of clothing her in the witchery of our own longings and imaginings, and thus allow her to distract us from our true quest. Today I feel that I shall win through.
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