Sitting in Michael's Lap
The Lady Fate hath not a gentle touch,
Her countenance but seldom waxes kind;
She works her spell without regard for such
Inconsequential things as human mind
Or suffering of souls. With practiced hands,
The blooming Maid doth spin her silken skein
While vibrant youth flows through her grasp as sand,
Then wavers to the Matron's ripened mein,
Who, with her nimble fingers, winds the weave
Of which the joy and grief of Man are made;
Comes then the Crone, whose wizened digits reave
The fated from their souls with scissored blade.
Their threefold gaze hath not the care to see
A single stitch in endless tapestry.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest