CLOTHO, Lachesis, Atropos,
All your gain is not my loss.
Spin your black threads if you will,
Twist them, turn, with all your skill;
Hold! this one you cannot sever,
This bright thread shall last forever.
You ’re defied, you, Atropos!
Draw your glittering shears across, —
Still it mocks your cruel art.
From the fibres of my heart
Did I spin it, this bright thread,
That will live when you are dead.
Hark ye, Fate! one thing I ’ll teach:
There are some things past your reach, —
Woman’s heart and woman’s soul;
Woman’s love’s past your control.
These are not threads of your spinning, —
No, nor shall be of your winning.
A. W.