A dark form lingers on the lea,
In the moon-lit night—
In the cold white light,
Beneath the shade of an old oak tree,
Like a dusky sprite,
Or ghost newly sped
From the voiceless dead;
And the flowers droop round it weeping,
While the sad moon streams
Her white-wan beams
O'er the world as it lieth sleeping.
And ere the morn
A wail forlorn
Will arise from a lost one weeping.

A soft step leaves the cottage door
In the moon-lit night,
Like a leaflet's flight;
A pure heart leaps, full of rich love-lore,
Tow'rds the dusky sprite
That stands like a shade
From the voiceless dead,
And the flowers droop round them weeping,
While the sad moon streams
Her white-wan beams
O'er the world as it lieth sleeping;
And ere the morn
A wail forlorn
Will arise from a lost one weeping.