Ages

In that stone head, obscenity Has been preserved a thousand years; A bible-leaf of families Have shuddered at the pointed ears. The sword that hangs upon the wall Is notched the length of its long blade, And children at the village school Dream of the trusses it has mowed. Close against the lichened tower Still lives a witch. Around her head She wears a shawl, and white as flour Her lips count every step she treads. But when the dusk-born lovers stand The figure sobs, 'Oh where's my soul?' The sword sighs for the long-dead hand, The old hag huddles from the owl.