Averoigne

In Averoigne the enchantress weaves Weird spells that call a changeling sun, Or hale the moon of Hecate Down to the ivy-hooded towers. At evening, from her nightshade bowers, The bidden vipers creep, to be The envoys of her malison; And philtres drained from tomb-fat leaves Drip through her silver sieves. In Averoigne swart phantoms flown From pestilent moat and stagnant lake Glide through the garish festival In torch-lit cities far from time. Whether for death or birth, the chime Of changeless bells equivocal Clangs forth, while carven satyrs make With mouths of sullen, sombre stone Unending silent moan. In Averoigne abides the mage. So deep the silence of his cell, Life hears the termless monarchies That walk with thunder-echoing shoon In iron castles past the moon— Fast-moated with eternities; And hears the shrewish laughters swell Of Norns that plot the impested age And wars that suns shall wage. In Averoigne the lamia sings To lyres restored from tombs antique, And lets her coiling tresses fall Before a necromantic glass. She sees her vein-drawn lovers pass, Faintly they cry to her, and all The bale they find, the bliss they seek, Is echoed in the tarnished strings That tell archaic things.