A Birthday

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