  When woods of home grow dark, I grow dark too. Images of strange power Fill me and thrill me that hour, Sombre of hue. The woods of Dunsinane I walk, and know What storms did shake Macbeth, That brought on Duncan’s death, And his own woe. Strange whispers chill the blood Of evil breath; Such rumours as did stir Witch and foul sorcerer On the lone heath. No power have these on me; I know too well Their weakness to condemn. Spring will exorcise them With one bluebell. |
|
