She bewitched me in my childhood, And the witch's charm is hidden — Far beyond the wicked wildwood I shall find it, I am bidden.
She commands me, she who bound me With soft sorcery to follow; In a golden snare who wound me To her bosom's snowy hollow....
Comes a night-dark stallion sired Of the wind; a mare his mother Whom Thessalian madness fired, And the hurricane his brother.
Then my soul delays no longer: Though the night around is scowling, Keenly mount him blacker, stronger Than the tempest that is howling.
At our ears wild shadows whistle; Brazen forks the lightning o'er us Flames; and huge the thunder's missile Bursts behind us, drags before us.
Over fire-scorched fields of stubble; Iron forests dark with wonder; Evil marshes black with trouble; Nightmare torrents thundering under:
In the thorn that past us races, Harelipped hags like crows are rocking; Stunted oaks have dwarf-like faces Gnarled that leer an impish mocking:
Rocks, in which the storm is hooting, Thrust a humpbacked murder over; Bristling heaths, dead thistles shooting, Raven-haunted gibbets cover:
Each and all are passed, like water Under-rolled into a cavern, Till we see the Devil's daughter Waiting at the Devil's tavern.
And we stay; I drain the beaker In her hand; the draught is fire; World-remembrances grow weaker, And my spirit, one desire.
Course it! course it! Darkness passes Like an uprolled banner tattered; Walled before us mountain masses Rise like centuries unscattered.
And the storm flies ragged. Slowly Comes a moon of copper-color, And the evil night grows holy, Mists the wild ride growing duller.
In the round moon's angry scanning, Demon-swift cross spider arches Of the web-thick bridges spanning Chasms of her kingdom's marches.
We have reached her kingdom, olden As the sea that sighs its sadness; Rocks and trees and sands are golden, And the air a golden gladness.
Shapely ingots are the flowers, And the waters, amber brightness; Gold-bright, song-birds in the bowers Sing with eyes of diamond whiteness.
And she meets me with a chalice Like the Giamschid ruby burning, And I drain it without malice, To her towers of topaz turning.
Many hundred years forgetting All that's earth: within her power I possess her: naught regretting Since each year is as an hour.
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