GOBLIN TIME
151
And in the bushes where you played The jasmine, deutzia, or rose,That knew but butterfly and bee, Some puffing, unseen dragon blows.The quince hedge is no hedge at all— Where you could cut a friendly switch—But with a screen of leaf it hides A broomstick trotting for a witch.
The grape-vine trellis, where you left Your top and ball: You wouldn't dare—It is so black and quivering— To go to seek your treasure there.For all the cold and secret hands That have the ghost-hour in their gripWould follow you. And just suppose Your knees should fail; your foot should slip.
You're brave enough. Of course you are! You swam right over the lagoon,You crossed the paddock, when the bull Was bellowing—But that was noon. . .The fowl-house—all that glimmering white That seemed to-day like streaks of lime—Those are the bones of murdered boys. Oh, run inside! . . . It's goblin time!
