At daybreak, the weavers are asked why they make such a gay garment, and they answer that it is the blue robe of a newborn child. At nightfall, the bright purple and green cloth becomes a queen’s marriage-veil. In the cold moonlight, the same weavers work solemn and still, making something white as a feather or cloud: a dead man’s funeral shroud. The three exchanges turn weaving into a quiet metaphor for time and the stages every life passes through. The speaker’s questions are simple and wondering, while the weavers’ replies are calm and certain. The mood shifts from joyful morning to vivid evening to hushed, chilly night, leaving a sense of both beauty and inevitability. The weavers feel less like individual people than like patient figures of fate, threading together birth, love, and death.
Indian Weavers — Summary
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.