The high Fates sat weaving, weaving at their loom, and I, poor soul, came crying at the door, asking a boon at their hands.

Those great ladies did not turn their heads, nor stint the flying shuttle; but one of them spoke, and she the youngest, and her voice was like the wind over the sea.

"What would you?" she said.

And I said, "That which you had of me yesterday."

"Is it your sin, that turned your cup blood red?"

"Nay; for I drained the cup, and washed it clean with my tears."

"Is it your sorrow, that changed the green world to black about you?"

"Nay; for I wrapped me in it as in a mantle, and now I should go cold without it."

"What then?" she asked; and ever as she spoke, back and forth, back and forth, the shuttle flew.

"Oh, what but my blunder! when I would make a path for my Love's white feet, and set instead a snare for them, to her hurt?"

Then those high ladies spoke all together; cold, sweet, steadfast were the voices of them, and the shuttle humming through.

"Even now the shuttle is threaded with your fault, and naught may stay its way. Go, poor soul, empty and crying as you came; yet take one comfort with you. Even of this, even of this, the Web had need!"