Hexli, The. Little Witch

I whittled at a stick one day, —

'T was just to pass the time away:

A little girl came tripping by,

With rosy look and witching eye.

With artless smile and simple grace,

She looked me sweetly in my face,

And said, " That knife is sharp, I ween, —

Another thing will cut as keen. "

And then she laughed, and said, " Good-day, "

And like a dream had flown away;

The voice, the look, was with me still,

When all at once I felt me ill.

I could not work, I could not play;

I saw and heard her all the day.

That witching eye was sharp, I ween;

O, that was what would cut so keen.

I saw and heard her day and night, —

Her voice so soft, her eye so bright:

When others lay in slumber sweet,

I heard the clock each hour repeat

I could not stay and linger so:

Like one entranced, away I go;

Through field and forest, far and wide,

I seek if there the witch doth hide.

By bush and brake, by rock and hill,

Where'er I go, I see her still:

The little girl, with witching eye,

Is ever, ever tripping by.

Through town and village, too, I stray;

At every house I call and say,

" O, can you tell me where to find

The little girl that witched my mind? "

I've sought her many a weary mile;

Methought I saw her all the while:

Ah! if I can't the witch obtain,

I never shall be well again.

Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.