Thomas Wentworth Higginson - The Baby Sorceress lyrics

My baby sits beneath the tall elm-trees, A wreath of tangled ribbons in her hands; She twines and twists the many-coloured strands,-- A little sorceress, weaving destinies. Now the pure white she grasps; now naught can please But strips of crimson, lurid as the brands From pa**ion's fires; or yellow, like the sands That lend soft netting to the azure seas. And so with sweet, incessant toil she fills A summer hour, still following fancies new, Till through my heart a sudden terror thrills Lest, as she weaves, her aimless choice prove true. Thank God! our Fates proceed not from our wills: The Power that spins the thread shall blend the hue.