Like witches they flew along rows,
Keeping creation at ease;
With a tendril for needle
They sewed up the air with a stem;
They teased out the seed that the cold kept asleep, —
All the coils, loops and whorls.
They trellised the sun; they plotted for more than themselves.

"Frau Bauman, Frau Schmidt, and Frau Schwartze," ll. 19-25 - The Lost Son and Other Poems (1948)