We are no weavers who write today
Yet still we write in their way
And similar is the things we say
In our small rhymes
And with words and language play
As we write of our times.
Many of them were Masonic members then
And crafted their words as such men did when
Though they were not operative craftsmen,
As speculative masons be
And we weave but words not cloth with pen
As Speculative Weavers are we?
By our work we keep paper by
And pen, and should a thought fly
To mind, or image come to eye
It can be written down
Though a writer such as I
May never be of renown...
For a writer, like them in their year
Write not for glory, though it may appear
Though fame is saught both far and near
It is not to live
A live of luxury, and sloth and cheer
But rather to give...
To give the joy of the written word
That flies on page like a freed bird
And tells of an event occurred
Or a flight of fancy thought
Though it may seem however absurd
Written down to be read it aught.
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