Spinning Song


My sisters plucked green leaves at morn

To deck the garden swing,

And donned their shining golden veils

For the Festival of Spring ...

But sweeter than the new-blown vines,

And the call of nesting birds

Are the tendrils of your hair, Beloved,

And the music of your words.


My sisters sat beside the hearth

Kneading the saffron cakes,

They gathered honey from the hives

For the Festival of Snakes ...

Why should I wake the jewelled lords

With offerings or vows,

Who wear the glory of your love

Like a jewel on my brows?


My sisters sang at evenfall

A hymn of ancient rites,

And kindled rows of silver lamps

For the Festival of Lights ...

But I leaned against the lattice-door

To watch the kindling skies,

And praised the gracious gods, Beloved,

For the beauty of your eyes.

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