EVEN as walk on middle earth
The shades of the unquiet dead
That loathe the graves allotted them from birth
And wander without end, uncomforted;
So the dead moon, poor restless rover
That died by fire, long, long ago,
Wanders forlorn the steeps of heaven over;
With death's despair and life's outwearied woe
She journeys, a reluctant lustre giving
To this world's throbbing life and strong,
And, being dead, envieth all things living,
And sheds a passing death her beams along.
To that weird corpse-light worse than dark,
All fair things for a little die;
The spell-bound earth lies, colourless and stark,
Beneath the wan ghost witch's jealous eye.