The Witch

She gropes and hobbies, where the dropsied rocks
  Are hairy with the lichens and the twist
  Of knotted wolf's-bane, mumbling in the mist,
  Hawk-nosed and wrinkle-eyed with scrawny locks.
  At her bent back the sick-faced moonlight mocks,
  Like some lewd evil whom the Fiend hath kissed;
  Thrice at her feet the slipping serpent hissed,
  And thrice the owl called to the forest fox.--
  What sabboth brew dost now intend? What root
  Dost seek for, seal for what satanic spell
  Of incantations and demoniac fire?
  From thy rude hut, hill-huddled in the brier,
  What dark familiar points thy sure pursuit,
  With burning eyes, gaunt with the glow of Hell?