Back Aa

Fires of Driftwood

Close

<h3 id="The_Witch">The Witch</h3> HER hair was gold and warm it lay   Upon the pallor of her brow; Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray—   And in their depths he drowned his vow. She wandered where the sands were wet,   Weaving the sea-weed for a crown, And there at eve a monk she met—   A holy monk in cowl and gown. She held him with her witch’s stare   (A sweet, child-look—it witched him well!) Upon his lip she froze the prayer,   And in his ear she breathed a spell. He babbled ever of her name   And of her brow that gleamed like dawn, And of her lips—a lovely shame   No holy man should think upon. They hunted her along the sea,   “Witch, Witch!” they cried and hissed their hate— Her hair unbound fell to her knee   And made a glory where she sate. Her song she hushed and, wonder-eyed,   She gazed upon their bell and book; The zealous priests were fain to hide   Lest they be holden by her look.  Most innocent she seemed to be   (“The Devil’s sly!” the fathers say) Her eyes were dreaming eyes that see   Things strange and fair and far away. They stood her in the judgment hall.   “Confess,” they cried, “the blasting spell That holds yon crazéd monk in thrall?”   “Good sirs,” she said, “he loved me well.” They haled her to a witch’s doom,   They matched her shining hair with flame— But ever through the cloister’s gloom   The mad monk babbles of her name! And, when the red sun droppeth down   And wet sand gleameth ghostily, Men see her weave a sea-weed crown   Between the twilight and the sea.  <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

1 of 2

2 of 2