The Witch

She gropes and hobbles, where the dropsied rocks Are hairy with the lichens and the twist Of knotted wolf’s-bane, mumbling in the mist, Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks. At her bent back the moon, slow-sinking, mocks, Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed; Once at her feet the slipping serpent hissed, And once the owl called to the forest fox.-- What Sabboth brew does she intend? What root Now seek for, seal for what satanic spell Of incantations and demonic fire?-- From her rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier, What dark Familiar points her sure pursuit, There, with gaunt eyes, red with the glow of Hell?