Classic Poem

The three Fates sat in a house of birth,
Ah, welladay; ah, welladay;
Their eyes were bright, but not with mirth—
They have no love for the sons of earth—
And their lips were parched and grey.

Their grey locks hung from brow to chin,
Ah, welladay; ah, welladay;
One held the distaff, and one did spin,
And one held shears in her fingers thin;
Three silent hags were they.

We saw not the thread which the sisters spun,
Ah, welladay; ah, welladay;
Nor whether in white or in black begun,
But on her with the shears, that elder one,
Our eyes were fixed alway.

A thread, I ween, of tangled years,
Ah, welladay; ah, welladay;
God stay her hand that holds the shears;
Our hopes are stronger than our fears,—
God spare him, come what may.