Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WITCH BALL, by JOHN DRINKWATER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE WITCH BALL, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Never, oh never came
Last Line: From fogs of the night.
Subject(s): Witchcraft & Witches


[In some country places they hang up a blue glass ball as a charm against
Witches.]

NEVER, oh, never came
Witch in this garden.
We would not pardon,
Would we, dear, anyone
Who should say things were done,
Such as in hell they name,
Here in our garden?
Never was poison-root
In this Hesperides
Girdled by gentle trees;
Mould that our lilies made
Mothered no nightshade;
Never passed Endor's foot
Over so smooth a green
Lawn as is laid between
Borders that virtue
Only can print,
Of pansies and mint,
With no herb to hurt you.
Here where the thrush and jay,
Robin and linnet,
Find through the longest day
Songs for each minute,
No path or plantation
Ever has heard
Vext incantation
With song of the bird;
Never a muttered spell
Learnt in the writ of hell,
Psalter obscene,
On warlock or witch's lip
Whispered in stewardship
Curst and unclean.
The day and the night
Are holy, all hours,
With heaven alight
Again in the flowers;
All blossoms by day
Flashing back to the sun
Many beams to repay
The succour of one;
All blossoms, when sweet
Stars of even have birth,
Lying orbed at our feet,
Pale planets of earth,
And, chaste beyond whisper
Of sorcerer's rune,
Moon-virgin when Hesper
Is lost in the moon.
Go, comrade, go, lover,
Go pass through the portal,
Laugh and rest, till your mortal
Date falls as it must
To the gospel of dust,
And the dark wing shall cover
The sun from our portal.
Till then laugh and rest,
While the garden shall keep
All charms that are best
For fortune and sleep;
Clean rites to deliver
Roof-timber and stair
And hearthstone for ever
From plagues of the air.
No witch may come nearer
Than pass down the lane,
A fugitive peerer,
An impotent bane;
No kirtle of devil
May dip from the night,
Our lintel with evil
To brush in its flight.
Here melody lives,
The spirit burns purely,
And what the year gives
We harvest securely.
Still shall the blue witch-ball
Hang from the parlour-beam,
Catching the garden-gleam
Globed from the window-pane,
Marking our steps again
As in the room they fall;
A far little world of dream,
Still it shall hang by day,
Still it shall hang by night,
Just for the eye's delight,
Just as a story told,
Just as a fear of old,
Gathered away;
And never shall haunted
Breath cloud in the glass
The little enchanted
Long alleys of grass,
And birds of sweet lustres,
And gathering bees,
And blossoms in clusters,
And orcharded trees,
All mirrored in flame
From our acre of light,
Where witch never came
From fogs of the night.





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