Page:Collected poems vol 1 de la mare.djvu/163

 EART-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 casement 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?