There was a brief pause in the melody, then:
"Year on year have I woven here.
Green earth, white earth, and autumn sere;
Sitting singing where the earth-props mold;
Weave I, singing, where the world grows old.
Time's a traitor, but the loom is leal-
Time's a liar, but the web is real!
Hear my song and behold my web!
(Fly, little shuttle-!)"
"But, madam, 'tis no web you have there," broke in Trenmore. "'Tis naught but a little shuttle and no thread to it at all!"