| The Three Witches |
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All the moon-shed nights are over,
And the days of gray and dun;
There is neither may nor clover,
And the day and night are one.
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Not an hamlet, not a city
Meets our strained and tearless eyes;
In the plain without a pity,
Where the wan grass droops and dies.
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We shall wander through the meaning
Of a day and see no light,
For our lichened arms are leaning
On the ends of endless night.
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We, the children of Astarte,
Dear abortions of the moon,
In a gay and silent party,
We are riding to you soon.
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Burning ramparts, ever burning!
To the flame which never dies
We are yearning, yearning, yearning,
With our gay and tearless eyes.
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In the plain without a pity,
(Not an hamlet, not a city)
Where the wan grass droops and dies.
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