Classic Poem

All through the shining summer day,
The willow witches swing
Their trailing robes in rhythmic sway,
And in their slumber sing.
Then wake and with the ripples play
At chasings down the stream,
Then coyly turn and backward sway,
To doze again and dream.

At early Autumn's first faint frown,
They cease to drift and dream,
And drop their mantles faded brown
Into the shrunken stream.
Then in a tremor faint as death,
They pause and wait and sigh,
And watch in waters underneath,
The first faint rack go by.

At winter's breath they shake with fear,
Their clothing it will steal,
And whip their thin brown bodies bare
With thongs of icy steel.
So at his voice they call for help,
And lift their arms and scream,
Or bed their faces in the kelp,
And weep into the stream.

But kindly Spring's first warm caress
Heals all their wounds again,
And Nature's gracious bounteousness
Makes pleasure of their pain.
With joyous pulses beating 'neath
New robes of tender green,
With train, and stole, and shining wreath.
The Witch is again Queen.