Yakov Polonsky (1819–1898)
(Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky and Cecil Cowdrey)

THIS vast web, of Nature’s weaving,

Is God’s garment, so ’tis said.

In that fabric I—a living,

I—a still unbroken thread.

And the threads run swiftly, never

Halting, yet if once they sever,

Seer or sage shall not suffice

Then the parted strands to splice.

For the Weaver so will veil them

That (let him who may bewail them)

None the ends shall ever find,

Nor one broken thread rebind.

Ceaselessly the threads are breaking,—

Short, ah short will be my span!

Meanwhile, at His fabric’s making

Toils the cosmic Artisan,—

Curious patterns still designing,

Wave and crested hill defining,

Steppe and pasture, cloud and sky,

Wood and field of golden rye.

Though with care the wise may scan it,

Flawless since that Hand began it,

Smooth and fine with fair accord—

Shines the garment of the Lord!

Yakov Polonsky (1819–1898)(Trans. Avrahm Yarmolinsky and Cecil Cowdrey)