The Witch
I
VE walked a great while over the snow,
And I am not tall nor strong.
My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set,
And the way was hard and long.
I have wandered over the fruitful earth,
But I never came here before.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! The cutting wind is a cruel foe.
I dare not stand in the blast.
My hands are stone, and my voice a groan,
And the worst of death is past.
I am but a little maiden still,
My little white feet are sore.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! Her voice was the voice that women have,
Who plead for their heart's desire.
She came—she came—and the quivering flame Sunk and died in the fire.
It never was lit again on my hearth Since I hurried across the floor,
To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.
Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
Other author posts
Unwelcome
We were young, we were merry, we were very very wise, And the door stood open at our feast, When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes, And a man with his back to the East
To Memory
Strange Power, I know not what thou art, Murderer or mistress of my heart I know I'd rather meet the blow
Loiseau bleu
The lake lay blue below the hill O'er it, as I looked, there Across the waters, cold and still, A bird whose wings were palest blue
The Other Side Of A Mirror
I sat before my glass one day, And conjured up a vision bare, Unlike the aspects glad and gay, That erst were found reflected there - The vision of a woman, wild With more than womanly despair