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 ?