Poems (Forrest)/Seven magpies
SEVEN MAGPIES"Seven magpies for a witch."—Lancashire proverb.
Seven magpies have I found in between the barley sheaves,
Seven magpies like a shadow crossed the poplar's yellow leaves,
Seven magpies in the hollow where the brambles crowd the leas,
Knitting with their thorny fingers olive stockings for the trees;
Seven magpies—was I dreaming, drugged with spice of afternoon,
When I saw their black wings flitting o'er the golden harvest moon?
And a ghostly light was playing in the stubble here and there,
While the glistening grain-stooks quivered to the gambollings of a hare!
Seven magpies like a shadow crossed the poplar's yellow leaves,
Seven magpies in the hollow where the brambles crowd the leas,
Knitting with their thorny fingers olive stockings for the trees;
Seven magpies—was I dreaming, drugged with spice of afternoon,
When I saw their black wings flitting o'er the golden harvest moon?
And a ghostly light was playing in the stubble here and there,
While the glistening grain-stooks quivered to the gambollings of a hare!
When the grass was wet this morning with the weavings of the dew,
From the glade among the oak-trees seven birds across it flew!
Now I find the secret pathway lifted to the larch-ringed hill,
Winding like a dappled ribbon—and the wings are with me still!
Noon! A drowse of scented sunshine soaked in resins of the pine;
Sable feet of seven magpies keep a dancing march with mine;
And when violet-vestured evening looks athwart the darkening zone,
Will the witch's seven servants set their measure to my own,
Till, when pallid stars are peering at the chinks of Heaven's door,
I shall see a ruby signal flashing on the valley's floor,
And the shadow rising, falling, of the black cat by the fire,
Till the cavern in the mountain woos me as a heart's desire?
From the glade among the oak-trees seven birds across it flew!
Now I find the secret pathway lifted to the larch-ringed hill,
Winding like a dappled ribbon—and the wings are with me still!
Noon! A drowse of scented sunshine soaked in resins of the pine;
Sable feet of seven magpies keep a dancing march with mine;
And when violet-vestured evening looks athwart the darkening zone,
Will the witch's seven servants set their measure to my own,
Till, when pallid stars are peering at the chinks of Heaven's door,
I shall see a ruby signal flashing on the valley's floor,
And the shadow rising, falling, of the black cat by the fire,
Till the cavern in the mountain woos me as a heart's desire?
Be she old and worn and wizened, with her scant locks snaky-grey,
And her withered breasts forgetting all the lovers of her day,
Then I shall go laughing downward to the safety of the plain,
Knowing there be maids more comely where a man may kiss again.
But if she be small and subtle, with a face moon-pale and fair,
Twisting scarlet rowan-berries in the storm-clouds of her hair,
With a mocking mouth and dewy, and a firm breast, almond-white,
Then the Curse of Seven Magpies shall be on me like a blight!
And her withered breasts forgetting all the lovers of her day,
Then I shall go laughing downward to the safety of the plain,
Knowing there be maids more comely where a man may kiss again.
But if she be small and subtle, with a face moon-pale and fair,
Twisting scarlet rowan-berries in the storm-clouds of her hair,
With a mocking mouth and dewy, and a firm breast, almond-white,
Then the Curse of Seven Magpies shall be on me like a blight!