Excerpt from Poems

Such tested threads as may one day girt Riven worlds and make good as new.

Mother Earth herself's just a spinner, Convoying the threads that we wind, Nor stopping, the splendid old winner, Any sorry tangles to mind, But with whirr and with lilt she gauges And holds to the threads, that's the thing, Till, a boon to the galloping ages, She has them all wound on her string!

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