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They burned a witch in Bingham SquareLast Friday afternoon.The faggot-smoke was blacker thanThe shadows on the moon;The licking flames were strangely greenLike fox-fire on the fen ...And she who cursed the godly folkWill never curse again. They burned a witch in Bingham SquareBefore the village gate.A huswife raised a skinny handTo damn her, tense with hate.A huckster threw a jagged stone—Her pallid cheek ran red ...But there was something scornful inThe 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 stakeAnd laughed to see her fear ...Her red lips muttered secret wordsThat no one dared to hear. They burned a witch in Bingham Square—But ere she swooned with painAnd ere her bones were sodden ashBeneath the sudden rain,She set her mark upon that throng ...For time can not eraseThe echo of her anguished cries,The memory of her face....