At dusk a line of weaving priestesses
March from the fen to woo the living there,
So full of spice their fragrant long, long hair,
Drown you in their tart and warming kisses,
To lift you from all pain and deep despair.
I watch them strut about the ruined square
Their gowns are rustled with the haunted breeze,
They sit and lie at rest below tall trees
And comb with silver combs their lovely hair,
Their eyes so full of love and sorceries.
And then is heard nine lutes of subtle tune
That fill that grotto and the nearby fen,
With songs of love and longing for lost men
Below a pale and most stupendous moon,
That rune they chant again and then again.
Now from my place of solitude I stare
And marvel at the blush on each pale cheek,
Such women might an eager king here seek,
Such females seemed an answer to a prayer,
Each carried beauty and a wild mystique.
I marked one girl who stood upon a stone,
Who lifted up her arms as if in prayer,
Her loveliness exceptional, so rare,
She should have been a queen upon a throne,
It seemed she breathed some sweet enchanted air.
But then the clouds the giant moon obscured,
The magic rolled away like some cold tide,
The priestesses were gone and now beside
Me in that most oppressive night there soared
Wan comets in the distance as I cried.
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Submission Name: Sorceries
