Classic Poem

There was a wood, a witches' wood,
— All the trees therein were pale.
They bore no branches green and good,
— But as it were a gray nun's veil.

They talked and chattered in the wind
— From morning dawn to set of sun,
Like men and women that have sinned,
— Whose thousand evil tongues are one.

Their roots were like the hands of men,
— Grown hard and brown with clutching gold.
Their foliage women's tresses when
— The hair is withered, thin, and old.

There never did a sweet bird sing
— For happy love about his nest.
The clustered bats on evil wing
— Each hollow trunk and bough possessed.

And in the midst a pool there lay
— Of water white, as tho' a scare
Had frightened off the eye of day
— And kept the Moon reflected there.