Appendix to Lazarus, 10

Three women sit at the crossway lonely,
They’re thinking and spinning,
They’re sighing and grinning;
Their very aspect is hideous only.

The distaff the first holds, so placid;
The threads she setteth,
And each one wetteth;
So her hanging lip is all dry and flaccid.

The spindle the second one dances
In a circle ’tis whirling,
In droll fashion twirling;
The old woman’s eyes shoot blood-red glances.

The third Fate’s hands, so befitting,
Hold the scissors so dreary,
She hums Miserere,
And sharp is her nose, with a wart on it sitting.

O hasten thee quickly, and sever
My life’s thread so sadd’ning,
Escaping this madd’ning
Turmoil of life’s distresses for ever!