Tower of Ivory/The 'Chantress

by Archibald MacLeish

THE 'CHANTRESS

Lo, the lady Margaret!
Cunningly her fingers fret
Witcheries in clay.
She is Circe, sorceress
Mulberries make red her press,
Moon-ripe poppy blooms confess
Her way.

Lo, the lady Margaret
Spreadeth beauty for a net,
Springeth souls thereby,
Springeth souls to light her clay,
This for laughter, this to pray,
This to dance the Spring away,
And die.

Lo, the lady Margaret!
Her dark hair is springes set,
Her two hands a spell.
Whom she tangleth, him they bind,
Ariel in oak-tree rind,
In the dark clay, dumb and blind,
To dwell!

Lo, the lady Margaret!
All her dryad folk forget,
Bubbles in the bowl—
April and the running seas,
Stars and rainbows, what are these?—
So her clay have foam and lees
Of soul.