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The moon is like a scimitar, A little silver scimitar, A-drifting down the sky. And near beside it is a star, A timid twinkling golden star, That watches like an eye. And through the nursery window-pane The witches have a fire again, Just like the ones we make— And now I know they're having tea, I wish they'd give a cup to me, With witches' currant cake. |