Shooting lucid tendrils to wed
With the vine hook tree or pole,
Like Arachne launched out on her thread.
Then the maiden her dusky stole,
In the span of the black-starred zone,
Gathered up for her footing fleet.
As one that had toil of her own
She followed the lines of wheat
Tripping straight through the field, green blades,
To the groves of olive gray,