From out the November dark three knocks;
There has been rain; the moon is in the road
But the women in the doorway are not wet.
The young one is a sorceress; she will speak truths,
Go mad and die by water, her pockets
Crammed filled with stones.
The next will never find what she seeks
Will love well but not wisely, she will live long;
St. Peter watches her grave.
The oldest, great-hearted, died young; on this night
All three stand at your door, waiting.
Why have you not bid them enter?