Classic Poem

Spinning under the Great World Tree,
Yggdrasil, Nornir, the sisters three,
Singing noiselessly there in the skies,
Hidden in the deep blue away from our eyes.
Fair fates catching the wandering gold,
Weaving it nimbly, fold into fold,
Glibly, heedlessly. Ha! but what pull'd
Just a thought astray there, the fingers of Skuld?
A knot in the thread, double gold, or a grey
In the sun-lighted doom? Either way
The Fate lingers an instant, whilst over our heads
She lifts to the sun that caprice in her threads,
To see clearly, to shape it, perhaps, but the shade
Falls across our dim prescience, a spirit-hand laid
On our pulses that beat, now in hope, now in dread,
Presentiments, shadows from Skuld's lifted thread.