There is a woodland witch who lies With bloom-bright limbs and beam-bright eyes, Among the water-flags, that rank The slow brook's heron-haunted bank:
The dragon-flies, in brass and blue, Are signs she works her sorcery through; Weird, wizard characters she weaves Her spells by under forest leaves,—
These wait her word, like imps, upon The gray flag-pods; their wings, of lawn And gauze; their bodies gleamy green. While o'er the wet sand,— left between
The running water and the still,— In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she meditates Take on most sumptuous shapes, with traits
Like butterflies.‘ Tis she you hear, Whose sleepy rune, hummed in the ear Of silence, bees and beetles purr, And the dry-droning locusts whirr;
Till, where the wood is very lone, Vague monotone meets monotone, And slumber is begot and born, A faery child, beneath the thorn.
There is no mortal who may scorn The witchery she spreads around Her dim demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time,
As some sweet thought‘ twixt rhyme and rhyme. And by her spell you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown
Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fire-flies; and, in the gloom, Feel the cool vowels of perfume Slow-syllabled of weed and bloom.
But, in the night, at languid rest,— When like a spirit's naked breast The moon slips from a silver mist,— With star-bound brow, and star-wreathed wrist,
If you should see her rise and wave You welcome,— ah! what thing shall save You then? forevermore her slave!
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