I dreamed of Orchil, the dim goddess who is under the brown earth, 
in a vast cavern, where she weaves at two looms. 
With one hand she weaves life upward through the grass; 
with the other she weaves death downward through the mould; 
and the sound of the weaving is Eternity, 
and the name of it in the green world is Time. 
And, through all, Orchil weaves the weft of Eternal Beauty, 
that passeth not, though its soul is Change. 
This is my comfort, O Beauty that art of Time, 
who am faint and hopeless in the strong sound 
of that other weaving, where Orchil, the dim goddess, 
sits dreaming at her loom under the brown earth.