Now to the Brocken the witches hie,
The stubble is yellow, the corn is green;
thither the gathering legions fly,
And sitting aloft is Sir U'-ri-an seen;
O'er stick and o'er stone they go whirling along,
Witches and he-goats, a motley throng.
Alone old Baubo's coming now;
She rides upon a farrow sow;
A goodly sow and mother thereon,
The whole witch chorus follows anon.
The way is broad, the way is long.
What mad pursuit, what tumult wide!
The wind is hushed, the stars grow pale,
The pensive moon her light doth veil,
And whirling on, the magic choir
Sputter forth sparks of drizzling fire.
I don't know the author or origin of this poem, but I found it online and thought is suited the season. Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did!
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