And now it is not three she sees, and now it is not four.
'O! who are ye,' sweet Lucy cries, 'that in a dreadful ring,
All muffled up in brindled shawls, do caper, frisk, and spring?'
'A witch and witches, one and nine,' they straight to her reply,
And looked upon her narrowly, with green and needle eye.
Then Lucy sees in clouds of gold sweet cherry-trees upgrow,
And bushes of red roses that bloomed above the snow;
She smells all faint the almond-boughs that blow so wild and fair,
And doves with milky eyes ascend fluttering in the air.
Clear flow'rs she sees, like tulip buds, go floating by like birds,