or beneath his foot. But that
which had need of the floor found it, and his foot was satisfied.

No sooner was he in than he saw that the great revolving wheel in the
sky was the princess's spinning wheel, near the other end of the room,
turning very fast. He could see no sky or stars any more, but the
wheel was flashing out blue--oh, such lovely sky-blue light!--and
behind it of course sat the princess, but whether an old woman as thin
as a skeleton leaf, or a glorious lady as young as perfection, he could
not tell for the turning and flashing of the wheel.

'Listen to the wheel,' said the voice which had already grown dear to
Curdie: its very tone was precious like a jewel, not as a jewel, for no
jewel could compare with it in preciousness.

And Curdie listened and listened.

'What is it saying?' asked the voice.

'It is singing,' answered Curdie.

'What is it singing?'

Curdie tried to make out, but thought he could not; for no sooner had
he got hold of something than it vanished again.

Yet he listened, and listened, entranced with delight.

'Thank you, Curdie, said the voice.

'Ma'am,' said Curdie, 'I did try hard for a while, but I could not make
anything of it.'

'Oh yes, you did, and you have been telling it to me! Shall I tell you
again what I told my wheel, and my wheel told you, and you have just
told me without knowing it?'

'Please, ma'am.'

Then the lady began to sing, and her wheel spun an accompaniment to her
song, and the music of the wheel was like the music of an Aeolian harp
blown upon by the wind that bloweth where it listeth. Oh, the sweet
sounds of that spinning wheel! Now they were gold, now silver, now
grass, now palm trees, now ancient cities, now rubies, now mountain
brooks, now peacock's feathers, now clouds, now snowdrops, and now
mid-sea islands. But for the voice that sang through it all, about
that I have no words to tell. It would make you weep if I were able to
tell you what that was like, it was so beautiful and true and lovely.
But this is something like the words of its song:

The stars are spinning their threads,
And the clouds are the dust that flies,
And the suns are weaving them up
For the time when the sleepers shall rise.

The ocean in music rolls,
And gems are turning to eyes,
And the trees are gathering souls
For the day when the sleepers shall rise.

The weepers are learning to smile,
And laughter to glean the sighs;
Bur