"THAT bloody Witch," the freezing outposts called her, "Until she changes we shall still be frozen." And still she kept the smile her craft had chosen, Looking as though nor death nor hell appalled her. But they were appalled. Innocence shining out of the blue serenely, Or idiocy smiling in eternal blankness— How could they tell, whose eyes saw only rankness, Dying and living one—mad and uncleanly? Nothing that lived was clean. Take thou their curse, wise Moon, and be forgiving. They needed a new Scapegoat for their cursing. Better to speak than still be silent, nursing Despair. And then, to appease their anguished living, Of thine old sweetness give. |