THE web flew out and floated wide.
Poor lady! I was with her then.
She gathered up her piteous pride,
But she could never weave again.
The mirror cracked from side to side;
I saw its silver shadows go.
'The curse has come on me!' she cried.
Poor lady! I had told her so.
She was so proud: she would not hide.
She only laughed and tried to sing.
But singing, in her song she died.
She did not profit anything.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem