'Ma'am,' said Curdie, 'I did try hard for a while, but I could not
make anything of it.'

'Oh yes, you did, and you have been telling it to me! Shall I tell
you again what I told my wheel, and my wheel told you, and you have
just told me without knowing it?'

'Please, ma'am.'

Then the lady began to sing, and her wheel spun an accompaniment to
her song, and the music of the wheel was like the music of an
Aeolian harp blown upon by the wind that bloweth where it listeth.
Oh, the sweet sounds of that spinning wheel! Now they were gold,
now silver, now grass, now palm trees, now ancient cities, now
rubies, now mountain brooks, now peacock's feathers, now clouds,
now snowdrops, and now mid-sea islands. But for the voice that
sang through it all, about that I have no words to tell. It would
make you weep if I were able to tell you what that was like, it was
so beautiful and true and lovely. But this is something like the
words of its song:


The stars are spinning their threads, And the clouds are the dust
that flies, And the suns are weaving them up For the time when the
sleepers shall rise.

The ocean in music rolls, And gems are turning to eyes, And the
trees are gathering souls For the day when the sleepers shall rise.

The weepers are learning to smile, And laughter to glean the sighs;