Why are you paler my dearest dear?
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
’Tis but the wind in the elm tree near—
(Acushla, hush! lest the Banshee hear!)
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
See, how the crackling fire up-springs,
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
Up and up on its flame-red wings;
Hark, how the cheerful kettle sings!
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
Core of my heart! How cold your lips!
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
White as the spray the wild wind whips,
Still as your icy finger tips!
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
On the rising wind the Banshee cries—
“O-hoho, O hoho-o-o!”
I kiss your hair. I kiss your eyes—
The kettle is dumb; the red flame dies!
“Ochone! Ochone! Ochone!”
The Witch
HER hair was gold and warm it lay
Upon the pallor of her brow;
Her eyes were deep, aye, deep and gray—
And in their depths he drowned his vow.
She wandered where the sands were wet,
Weaving the sea-weed for a crown,
And there at eve a monk she met—
A holy monk in cowl and gown.
She held him with her witch’s stare
(A sweet, child-look—it witched him well!)
Upon his lip she froze the prayer,
And in his ear she breathed a spell.
He babbled ever of her name
And of her brow that gleamed like dawn,
And of her lips—a lovely shame
No holy man should think upon.
They hunted her along the sea,
“Witch, Witch!” they cried and hissed their hate—
Her hair unbound fell to her knee
And made a glory where she sate.