A Spider’s Shroud

Once upon a misty eve,
a lonely spider made a weave
of silken thread so lovely. 
No weaver's hand could make so great 
a silver line, so strong and straight,
to spangle leaves above thee. 
A sparkling line of shining stars, 
fit to crown the heads of tsars,
nightly crests the blades of grass
where restless trav'lers often pass.
I sat and watched the seamstress toil, 
softly crafting every coil
for moon and stars to kiss.
A purer veil could not be formed
to shroud the heart that once was warmed
by laughter that I miss.
Once upon a misty morn,
I watched the flowers being born
beneath those shining stars above,
o'er the grave of my true love.
A silent vigil I have kept, 
and many silver tears I wept
in sorrow that I bore. 
Tho' many years have passed since then,
I still await that morning when
I'll see her face once more.