Sad words

The little threads break one by one That bound my heart to thine; Love’s, like the silkworm’s, web is spun, — As perilously fine.

It snaps beneath an angry word, 'Neath an unloving look; Frowns are more trenchant than the sword, Or Autumn's reaping-hook.

The maiden in the ceaseless mill Watching the parting weft, Stands ready to repair the ill With fingers fast and deft.

But no fourth sister waits beside Those fatal hands which sever Life’s clue, which like Love’s thread untied, Is join’d again, ah, never! 2em