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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=365765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Jane O'Grady</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=365765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Grey old lady, sat by the sea<br>With her nimble fingers, weaving, <br>Jane O’Grady, seventy three<br>In the world that she was leaving.<br>Hummed sweet honey from virgin lips<br>In the way of the wind, sad-sighing, <br>Carried the song from her fingertips<br>To the day that she lay dying.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=365765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Shuttle sang in the early breeze<br>To the tune of life’s sweet sorrow: <br>“God, I’m weary of weaving love, <br>But I’ll not be here tomorrow.”</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=365765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">Grey old lady, worked with a will<br>On the shawl of life’s sweet pattern, <br>Fingers stilled in the dawning chill<br>As the world turned once too often.<br>Nevermore will she weave the love<br>That we borrowed, all unknowing, <br>Only the rags of the hand-me-downs<br>With the grey wind blowing.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=365765" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">24 November 1974</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=David+Lewis+Paget">David Lewis Paget</a></strong></div>

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