His hand on the door clashed steel—
In the hall, the roar of the torrent,
In the turret, the thunder's peal—
And there in the highest turret
She sat at a spinning-wheel.
She spun the flax of a spindle,
All in a magic space;
She spun with her head bent downward,
His Lady, fair of face;
She spun, all wildly singing,