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    The Witch Poem

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    vicky
    The poem describes a witch who has walked a long way through the snow. She pleads to be let inside a home, saying that she is cold and tired. Though her voice sounds like a woman in need, as soon as she is let inside, the fire dies. The home's occupants have not lit a fire since letting the witch inside.

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    © All Rights Reserved
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    The Witch Poem

    Uploaded by

    vicky
    114 views1 page
    The poem describes a witch who has walked a long way through the snow. She pleads to be let inside a home, saying that she is cold and tired. Though her voice sounds like a woman in need, as soon as she is let inside, the fire dies. The home's occupants have not lit a fire since letting the witch inside.

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    The poem describes a witch who has walked a long way through the snow. She pleads to be let inside a home, saying that she is cold and tired. Though her voice sounds like a woman in need, as soon as she is let inside, the fire dies. The home's occupants have not lit a fire since letting the witch inside.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    114 views1 page

    The Witch Poem

    Uploaded by

    vicky
    The poem describes a witch who has walked a long way through the snow. She pleads to be let inside a home, saying that she is cold and tired. Though her voice sounds like a woman in need, as soon as she is let inside, the fire dies. The home's occupants have not lit a fire since letting the witch inside.

    Copyright:

    © All Rights Reserved
    Download as PDF, TXT or read online from Scribd
    Download as pdf or txt
    of 1

    The Witch

    Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

    I have walked a great while over the snow,

    And I am not tall nor strong.

    My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set,

    And the way was hard and long.

    I have wandered over the fruitful earth,

    But I never came here before.

    Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

    The cutting wind is a cruel foe.

    I dare not stand in the blast.

    My hands are stone, and my voice a groan,

    And the worst of death is past.

    I am but a little maiden still,

    My little white feet are sore.

    Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!

    Her voice was the voice that women have,

    Who plead for their heart’s desire.

    She came—she came—and the quivering flame

    Sunk and died in the fire.

    It never was lit again on my hearth

    Since I hurried across the floor,

    To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.

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