Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/125



fair-haired boy is sore bewitched, He goes all full of grieving; The web of gloom upon his brow Is sure of fairy weaving.

His cheery laugh I never hear, His voice is rough and chiding; Upon his path some evil thing Does watch him from its hiding.

Ahone! Ahone! I bid him tell If he has trod unknowing Upon the fairy sleeping grass Or cut the thorn a-growing.

He only turns his head away. His words are bitter hearing; But, ah! he cannot silence so A mother's heart from fearing.

Last night I made a waxen shape To bring the witch before me, So she could take the sullen lad. And my bright child restore me.

Nine pins I thrust within its side To pierce her heart to dying, And laid it on the glowing turf. So listened for her crying.