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 likes an eye. And thro’ 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.