Arachne

Fresh roses crumble with slow rains,
Thorns tearing lacy spun silk, your
Rags fit to be burned,
Drowned in my bloodied envy!

Shall it be you, threading, mingling
These broken hands of time-
Of no use to me, which
I banish from my night?

I made it so, that peace
Comes only in rain;
In undone quicksilver strand
No sorrow runs unspun.