I have walked a great while over the snow, And I am not tall nor strong. My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set, And the way was hard and long. I have wandered over the fruitful earth, But I never came here before. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! The cutting wind is a cruel foe. I dare not stand in the blast. My hands are stone, and my voice a groan, And the worst of death is past. I am but a little maiden still, My little white feet are sore. Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door! Her voice was the voice that women have, Who plead for their heart's desire. She came -- she came -- and the quivering flame Sank and died in the fire. It never was lit again on my hearth Since I hurried across the floor, To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.
- by Mary Coleridge (1861 - 1907), "The witch", appears in Poems, no. 45, first published 1907 [author's text checked 1 time against a primary source]
Musical settings (art songs, Lieder, mélodies, (etc.), choral pieces, and other vocal works set to this text), listed by composer (not necessarily exhaustive)
- by Charles Villiers Stanford, Sir (1852 - 1924), "The witch", op. 119 (Eight partsongs) no. 1, published 1910. [SSAA chorus a cappella] [text not verified]
Researcher for this text: Emily Ezust [Administrator]
This text was added to the website: 2009-02-04
Line count: 21
Word count: 169