[Footnote 24:  Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos were the three Fates of the ancient mythology; Clotho spun the thread of human destiny, Lachesis twisted it, and Atropos with shears severed it.]

    Wait, we say; our years are long;
    Men are weak, but Man is strong;
    Since the stars first curved their rings, 15
    We have looked on many things;
    Great wars come and great wars go,
    Wolf-tracks light on polar snow;
    We shall see him come and gone,
    This second-hand Napoleon. 20
      Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! 
      Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 
      In the shadow, year out, year in,
      The silent headsman waits forever.

    We saw the elder Corsican, 25
    And Clotho muttered as she span,
    While crowned lackeys bore the train,
    Of the pinchbeck Charlemagne: 
    “Sister, stint not length of thread! 
    Sister, stay the scissors dread! 30
    On Saint Helen’s granite bleak,
    Hark, the vulture whets his beak!”
      Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! 
      Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 
      In the shadow, year out, year in, 35
      The silent headsman waits forever.

    The Bonapartes, we know their bees
    That wade in honey red to the knees: 
    Their patent reaper, its sheaves sleep sound
    In dreamless garners underground:  40
    We know false glory’s spendthrift race
    Pawning nations for feathers and lace;
    It may be short, it may be long,
    “’Tis reckoning-day!” sneers unpaid Wrong. 
      Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! 45
      Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 
      In the shadow, year out, year in,
      The silent headsman waits forever.

    The Cock that wears the Eagle’s skin
    Can promise what he ne’er could win; 50
    Slavery reaped for fine words sown,
    System for all, and rights for none,
    Despots atop, a wild clan below,
    Such is the Gaul from long ago;
    Wash the black from the Ethiop’s face, 55
    Wash the past out of man or race! 
      Spin, spin, Clotho, spin! 
      Lachesis, twist! and, Atropos, sever! 
      In the shadow, year out, year in,
      The silent headsman waits forever. 60

    ’Neath Gregory’s throne a spider swings,[25]
    And snares the people for the kings;
    “Luther is dead; old quarrels pass;
    The stake’s black scars are healed with grass;”
    So dreamers prate; did man e’er live 65
    Saw priest or woman yet forgive;