AH, I think I hear a sound, Something humming round and round. Is it wings astir, a-flutter, Just outside my window shutter? Whir, whir, Soft as old gray pussy's purr. Maybe moth in foolish flight Lured here by my candle-light, Eager but to reach the burning Out of which is no returning. Soft of wing, Newly fledged and fluttering. White the moon shines through the pane; It is neither wind nor rain, But I'll see when morn uncloses Fair and pink my sweet-brier roses, What it is Makes such whirring sound as this. Out I look upon the dawn, Sound of spinning-wheel is gone. Half unfolded roses cluster, And a web of silken luster Hangs and sways In the early morning rays. Did the spider make the whir As she spun this gossamer? Patient, slow from the beginning, Real old-fashioned, great-wheel spinning, Thread by thread, Back and forth with busy tread. All I know is, something kept Fluttering, rustling till I slept, And behold this fabric shining White as mist with silver lining. I believe I did hear her spin and weave. |