06.05.2009, 06:08
A RENCONTRE.
When the chill morning from the mountain-tops
Forecasting, sped its shadows o'er the clow ;
And all the cocks, as once for Peter, crew,
Greeting the wind that waved the moorland crops ;
Came a foul crone towards me from a copse,
With weeds in her long fingers, dank and blue,
And a sharp hook, that 'cross the air she drew,
Beckoning to me as one that charmed stops.
And I bethought me, if committed sin
Takes ever elvish shape, then this might be
Image of some of old this wood within ;
But then superior to her witchery
I past, for cheerful daylight did begin,
And I the sun through the forest boughs could see.
When the chill morning from the mountain-tops
Forecasting, sped its shadows o'er the clow ;
And all the cocks, as once for Peter, crew,
Greeting the wind that waved the moorland crops ;
Came a foul crone towards me from a copse,
With weeds in her long fingers, dank and blue,
And a sharp hook, that 'cross the air she drew,
Beckoning to me as one that charmed stops.
And I bethought me, if committed sin
Takes ever elvish shape, then this might be
Image of some of old this wood within ;
But then superior to her witchery
I past, for cheerful daylight did begin,
And I the sun through the forest boughs could see.