THE three Fates sat in a house of birth, <br /> Ah, well a day; ah, well a day; <br />Their eyes were bright, but not with mirth— <br />They have no love for the sons of earth— <br /> And their lips were parched and gray. <br />5 <br /> <br />Their gray locks hung from brow to chin, <br /> Ah, well a day; ah, well a day; <br />One held the distaff, and one did spin, <br />And one held shears in her fingers thin; <br /> Three silent hags were they. <br />10 <br /> <br />We saw not the thread which the sisters spun, <br /> Ah, well a day; ah, well a day; <br />Nor whether in white or in black begun, <br />But on her with the shears, that elder one, <br /> Our eyes were fixed alway. <br />15 <br /> <br />A thread, I ween, of tangled years, <br /> Ah, well a day; ah, well a day; <br />God stay her hand that holds the shears; <br />Our hopes are stronger than our fears <br /> For the bud upon life's spray. <br />20<br /><br />Frederick George Scott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-birthday-11/
