THE BURNING
I have done well. . . .I taste God at the altar. I have foiledThe malice of the witch. Have cast her forthFrom tranquil hearths of magic-fearing men,And from the woodland walks where she would passSometimes as moonlight on a sanded pathSometimes a flying hare amid the stooks,And now within the chapel walls I kneelFor God's approval, for I have done well. . .
We heaped her pyre with faggots from the wood,Dry bracken in the pile to make it blaze;Old logs of yew, and splinters from the oak—Resin of pine and crackle of the larch.. . . We bound her hands—they were not hard to bind,For she was just a girl with little wrists—And great Madonna eyes . . . Part of her crimeThat she should look like Mary! Her small breastsGlimmered among her rags. Not modestlyWas she attired . . . but the flames covered her. . .
And yet . . . between the flames I saw her eyes. . .'Twas I who raised the hue and cry, and draveHer down towards the sobbing Northern sea;
