Weird Tales/Volume 36/Issue 1/Witch-Dance
By CLARK ASHTON SMITH
As in the Sabatt's ancient round
With strange and subtle steps you went:
And toward the heaven and toward the ground
Your steeple shapen hat was bent
As in the sabbat's ancient round.
Between the windy, swirling fire
And all the stillness of Ihe moon.
Sweet witch, you danced at my desire,
Turning some weird and lovely tune
To paces like the swirling fire.
Your supple youth and loveliness
A glamor left upon the air:
Whether to curse, whether to bless,
You wove a stronger magic there
With your lithe youth and loveliness.
Upon the earth your paces wrought
A circle such as magicians made...
And still some hidden thing you sought
With hands desirous, half afraid,
Beyond the ring your paces wrought.
Your fingers, on the smoke and flame,
Moved in mysterious conjuring,
You seemed to call a silent Name,
And lifted like an outstretched wing
Your somber gown against the flame.
What darkling and demonian Lord,
In fear or triumph, did you call?
Ah! was it then that you implored,
With secret signs equivocal,
The coming of the covens' Lord?
Sweet witch, you conjured forth my heart
To answer always at your will!
Like Merlin, in some place apart,
It lies enthralled and captive still:
Sweet witch, you conjured thus my heart!