Weavers, weaving at break of day, Why do you weave a garment so gay？ . . . Blue as the wing of a halcyon wild, We weave the robes of a new-born child.
Weavers, weaving at fall of night, Why do you weave a garment so bright？ . . . Like the plumes of a peacock, purple and green, We weave the marriage-veils of a queen.
Weavers, weaving solemn and still, What do you weave in the moonlight chill？ . . . White as a feather and white as a cloud, We weave a dead man's funeral shroud.