Classic Poem

Down of the moth,
Dust of ethereal cloth,
Lint of the butterfly's wing,
Whence did you spring?
What substance was caught
And cunningly wrought
Divinely to spin you
And gently begin you?
Are you made of sun shimmer
Or firefly's glimmer?
Are you gathered at dusk
From invisible husk,
Borne through the gloom
To mysterious loom,
There to be taken,
Sifted and shaken,
Carefully cloven,
Wondrously woven,
Shredded and shaded,
Winningly braided,
Finished and flung
Where breezes are hung?
Down of the moth,
Dust of ethereal cloth,
Lint of the butterfly's wing,
Whence did you spring?

Down of the moth,
Dust of ethereal cloth,
Lint of the butterfly's wing,
What word do you bring?
At the looms where they fashioned you faint as a breath,
Did your making mean death?
Such is the penalty here on the earth
For fabrics of worth.
Did some stunted finger
Caressingly linger
To thresh you
And mesh you?
Did wan women die
For want of the sky?
Such is the sacrifice mortals must make
For finery's sake.
Did fair elfin children whose birthright is play
The penalty pay?
Did they drudge in the dark
To powder your spark?
Are you fashioned of blood, are you fashioned of pain,
By the anguish of souls do you measure the gain?
Down of the moth,
Dust of ethereal cloth,
Lint of the butterfly's wing—
What word do you bring?