Perhaps you thought I’d simply pull you out 
Of all I am, as if you were a seam 
Sewn loosely on my life? That I could rout 
Your yarns like threads from some supposed scheme 
Of richer, thicker, tight-laced patterns? No! 
I’ll need to pluck you inchmeal, strand by strand, 
From every foot of woof that spreads aglow 
With greens, blues, oranges . . . compel my hand 
To unweave glittering yards until my warp 
Runs ragged. All my craftsmanly designs 
Will hold so little of their former form 
Without your yarns’ bright hues and loops and twines. 
At last, you might be wrested from my weft— 
But oh! My warp would shelter stretches left!