Читать книгу Undertones - Cawein Madison Julius - Страница 15

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!