The Poetry Corner

The Wood Witch

By Madison Julius Cawein

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, brass-bright 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, gleaming green. While o'er the wet sand, left between The running water and the still, In pansy hues and daffodil, The fancies that she doth devise Take on the forms of butterflies, Rich-coloured. And '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 din demesne, wherein is bound The beauty of abandoned time, As some sweet thought 'twixt rhyme and rhyme. And through her spells you shall behold The blue turn gray, the gray turn gold Of hollow heaven; and the brown Of twilight vistas twinkled down With fireflies; 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 could save You then? for evermore her slave!