In a hollow oak-tree
I live by the wood,
A bit more than human
And much less than good.
I've queer spells, potent spells,
That I went to learn
To the goat-hooved and shaggy ones
Who hide in the fern.
The good-wives, the house-wives,
They shudder at my sin:
But much they'd give to learn to weave
Cloth of spiders'-spin!
My pet fox, my russet fox,
He ravishes their geese:
Yet none dare call out the hounds
If they would know peace!
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On a day of falling leaves
I met the young Squire.
I gave him a sidelong look
That set his face afire.
The bonny young Squire,
He dreams in a spell;
But not of golden curlylocks
Of Parson Jones' Nell—
But of red hair, and green eyes
That have looked on Hell!
Dream, pretty Squire-kin!
It's small use to bum!
For when the moon is up
The wood-wife will turn
Three times widdershins,
And greet where you stood
The shagged-men, the satyr-men
Who creep from the wood!
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