MOLY

EDITH M. THOMAS

The root is hard to loose
From hold of earth by mortals, but Gods' power
Can all things do. 'Tis black, but bears a flower
As white as milk. (Chapman's Homer.)


Traveller, pluck a stem of moly,
If thou touch at Circe's isle,--
Hermes' moly, growing solely
To undo enchanter's wile.
When she proffers thee her chalice,--
Wine and spices mixed with malice,--
When she smites thee with her staff
To transform thee, do thou laugh!
Safe thou art if thou but bear
The least leaf of moly rare.
Close it grows beside her portal,
Springing from a stock immortal,--
Yes, and often has the Witch
Sought to tear it from its niche;
But to thwart her cruel will
The wise God renews it still.