The Wood Witch

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!