  The moon looks cold On the withered wold; The wind blows fierce and free: The thin snow sifts And stings and drifts, Blown by the haunted tree. The gnarled tree groans; And sighs and moans, And shudders to its roots: Is it the fear Of a footstep near? Or the owl in its top that hoots? Is it a gust Of thin snow-dust, The wind sweeps from the plain?— Is it a breeze That wails and drees?— Christ sain thee, Floramane! The moon hangs white In the winter night: The wind blows fierce and free: And Floramane Her place hath ta'en Beneath the haunted tree. What is it whines? What is it shines With owlet-eldritch light?— With raven plume Forth from the gloom A man stalks, still and white. His face is dim; His sword swings grim; His long cloak flutters wide: His kiss falls bleak On her mouth and cheek, As he folds her to his side. What is it gleams? What is it streams So wan on Floramane?— The moonlit breeze? Or his heart, she sees Through the stab, like a burning stain? |
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