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THE WITCH-MAID
She drew her veil around her, her whiteness showing through,
And gazed; and still unceasingly there came the wood-dove's coo.
O the stirring of the spring,
The calling of the dove!
Why does he lie so cold, so cold, when I am here to love?
Her long strange eyes were narrowed to threads of shining green,
She touched the broken spear-point the wound's red lips between,
She touched it with her careless foot, and yet he did not stir,
Dull fool that lay with open eyes and would not look at her!
She turned away in anger and raised her arms on high,
Her straight white arms that questioned the pure pale sky,
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