THE LITTLE CREATURE

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Twink.u.m, tw.a.n.k.u.m, twirlum and twitch My great grandam--She was a Witch.

Mouse in wainscot, Saint in niche-- My great grandam--She was a Witch; Deadly nightshade flowers in a ditch-- My great grandam--She was a Witch; Long though the shroud it grows st.i.tch by st.i.tch-- My great grandam--She was a Witch; Wean your weakling before you breech-- My great grandam--She was a Witch; The fattest pig's but a double flitch-- My great grandam--She was a Witch; Nightjars rattle, owls scritch-- My great grandam--She was a Witch.

Pretty and small, A mere nothing at all, Pinned up sharp in the ghost of a shawl, She'd straddle her down to the kirkyard wall, And mutter and whisper and call; and call-- And--call.

Red blood out and black blood in, My Nannie says I'm a child of sin-- How did I choose me my witchcraft kin!

Know I as soon as dark's dreams begin Snared is my heart in a nightmare's gin; Never from terror I out may win; So dawn and dusk I pine, peak, thin, Scarcely beknowing t'other from which-- My great grandam--She was a Witch.

SAM

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When Sam goes back in memory, It is to where the sea Breaks on the shingle, emerald-green, In white foam, endlessly; He says--with small brown eye on mine-- "I used to keep awake, And lean from my window in the moon, Watching those billows break.

And half a million tiny hands, And eyes, like sparks of frost, Would dance and come tumbling into the moon, On every breaker tossed.

And all across from star to star, I've seen the watery sea, With not a single ship in sight, Just ocean there, and me; And heard my father snore. And once, As sure as I'm alive, Out of those wallowing, moon-flecked waves I saw a mermaid dive; Head and shoulders above the wave, Plain as I now see you, Combing her hair, now back, now front, Her two eyes peeping through; Calling me, 'Sam!'--quietlike--'Sam!'...

But me ... I never went, Making believe I kind of thought 'Twas some one else she meant....

Wonderful lovely there she sat, Singing the night away, All in the solitudinous sea Of that there lonely bay."

"P'raps," and he'd smooth his hairless mouth, "P'raps, if 'twere now, my son, P'raps, if I heard a voice say, 'Sam!'...

Morning would find me gone."

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THE WITCH

Weary went the old Witch, Weary of her pack, She sat her down by the churchyard wall, And jerked it off her back.

The cord brake, yes, the cord brake, Just where the dead did lie, And Charms and Spells and Sorceries Spilled out beneath the sky.

Weary was the old Witch; She rested her old eyes From the lantern-fruited yew trees, And the scarlet of the skies;

And out the dead came stumbling, From every rift and crack, Silent as moss, and plundered The gaping pack.

They wish them, three times over, Away they skip full soon: Bat and Mole and Leveret, Under the rising moon; Owl and Newt and Nightjar: They take their shapes and creep, Silent as churchyard lichen, While she squats asleep.

All of these dead were stirring: Each unto each did call, "A Witch, a Witch is sleeping Under the churchyard wall;

"A Witch, a Witch is sleeping...."

The shrillness ebbed away; And up the way-worn moon clomb bright, Hard on the track of day.

She shone, high, wan and silvery; Day's colours paled and died: And, save the mute and creeping worm, Nought else was there beside.

Names may be writ; and mounds rise; Purporting, Here be bones: But empty is that churchyard Of all save stones.

Owl and Newt and Nightjar, Leveret, Bat and Mole Haunt and call in the twilight, Where she slept, poor soul.

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THE JOURNEY

Heart-sick of his journey was the Wanderer; Footsore and parched was he; And a Witch who long had lurked by the wayside, Looked out of sorcery.

"Lift up your eyes, you lonely Wanderer,"

She peeped from her cas.e.m.e.nt small; "Here's shelter and quiet to give you rest, young man, And apples for thirst withal."

And he looked up out of his sad reverie, And saw all the woods in green, With birds that flitted feathered in the dappling, The jewel-bright leaves between.

And he lifted up his face towards her lattice, And there, alluring-wise, Slanting through the silence of the long past, Dwelt the still green Witch's eyes.

And vaguely from the hiding-place of memory Voices seemed to cry; "What is the darkness of one brief life-time To the deaths thou hast made us die?"

"Heed not the words of the Enchantress Who would us still betray!"

And sad with the echo of their reproaches, Doubting, he turned away.

"I may not shelter 'neath your roof, lady, Nor in this wood's green shadow seek repose, Nor will your apples quench the thirst A homesick wanderer knows."

"'Homesick, forsooth!'" she softly mocked him: And the beauty in her face Made in the sunshine pale and trembling A stillness in that place.

And he sighed, as if in fear, the young Wanderer, Looking to left and to right, Where the endless narrow road swept onward, In the distance lost to sight.

And there fell upon his sense the briar, Haunting the air with its breath, And the faint shrill sweetness of the birds' throats, Their tent of leaves beneath.

And there was the Witch, in no wise heeding; Her arbour, and fruit-filled dish, Her pitcher of well-water, and clear damask-- All that the weary wish.

And the last gold beam across the green world Faltered and failed, as he Remembered his solitude and the dark night's Inhospitality.

And he looked upon the Witch with eyes of sorrow In the darkening of the day; And turned him aside into oblivion; And the voices died away....

And the Witch stepped down from her cas.e.m.e.nt: In the hush of night he heard The calling and wailing in dewy thicket Of bird to hidden bird.

And gloom stole all her burning crimson, Remote and faint in s.p.a.ce As stars in gathering shadow of the evening Seemed now her phantom face.