The hound is at the witch's tree, The alder crouches white; The farmer sets his bitches free To creep along the night. I hear the wind whine in the bog; I hear the worms creep in a log, Turning the wood to meal; I've heard the rain-crow twice, I've seen two ghosts at dice Behind the dead mill-wheel. There is a candle on the stream That bows and bobs and does not die; It is a leaf the moon makes seem A candle rocking tenderly. Now if the moon would veil her face, And not go white and bare, I'd find me out a warm, dark place And lay my cold heart there; Too cold for any care. A place all earthy sweet and brown, Where tiny dwellers bore and plough, And birds at dawn hop softly down. But she goes white and bare, And she would come and stare; I could not die for thinking how The moon would stare and stare. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DISMAL MOMENT PASSING by CLARENCE MAJOR THE FAMILY MAN by JOHN GODFREY SAXE MOONLIGHT by MARGUERITE ATTERBURY TO AN UNSEEN BIRD by KATHLEEN REA BRAID A SEPTEMBER BIRTHDAY IN BRITTANY by ABBIE FARWELL BROWN TO MARY, ON RECEIVING HER PICTURE by GEORGE GORDON BYRON BALLAD TO THE TUNE OF BOBBING JOAN by PATRICK CAREY TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. THE LAKE OF BEAUTY by EDWARD CARPENTER |