“Still as they span, as they span, was the tooth kept nipping and
smoothing,
And to the withered lips clung morsels of wool as they smoothed it--
Filaments erstwhile rough that stood from the twist of the surface.
Close at their feet meantime, were woven baskets of wicker,
Guarding the soft white balls of the wool resplendent within them.
Thus then, parting the strands, these three with resonant voices
Uttered in chant divine, predestined sooth of the future--
Prophecy neither in time, nor yet in eternity shaken.”