Chapter II: (Keller)

I was a master-weaver
To weave my grief and care,
And day and night I fashioned
A heavy robe to wear.

I trailed it on the highway
Dust-grey, with weary pride,
I set upon my forehead
A wreath of thorns beside.

The sun on high in Heaven
Looked down and loud laughed he:
“What little dwarf goes yonder
In robes of majesty?”

Ashamed I laid my mantle
And crown upon the sod,
And sorrowless and joyless
The dusty road I plod.