Witch-Burning

They burned a witch in Bingham Square Last Friday afternoon. The faggot-smoke was blacker than The shadows on the moon; The licking flames were strangely green Like fox-fire on the fen... And she who cursed the godly folk Will never curse again.

They burned a witch in Bingham Square; Before the village gate. A huswife raised a skinny hand To damn her, tense with hate. A huckster threw a jagged stone— Her pallid cheek ran red... But there was something scornful in The way she held her head.

They burned a witch in Bingham Square; Her eyes were terror-wild. She was a slight, a comely maid, No taller than a child. They bound her fast against the stake And laughed to see her fear... Her red lips muttered secret words That no one dared to hear.

They burned a witch in Bingham Square— But ere she swooned with pain And ere her bones were sodden ash Beneath the sudden rain, She set her mark upon that throng... For time can not erase The echo of her anguished cries, The memory of her face. Mary Elizabeth Counselman