Endlessly we weave our fabric on the Looms of Time. The future holds the dreams of colored thread, the stuff that life is made of, and as we weave, the fabric passes to the changeless past. And some with bent gaze weave and look not to the future for the careful choosing of the strands, nor study they the pattern of the past, that they may blend the present to it in a harmony of beauty. And some weave gaudy colors and some gray, and some have bands of black of crimson patches or dim colors faded by hot tears, some weave pure white. But never, never can the loom unweave. Let not the shuttle aimless slide forward and back among the threads. Do well the handiwork with finely chosen strand, for when the weaving ends there is the changeless fabric... it is all whereby a man may judge. Let thine be shown a cloth of matchless beauty soft and fine, yet firm in every part, with gently blending colors.... and straight through, woven from end to end, one perfect thread of gold, sign of a unswerving purpose, symbol of a deathless love.