Classic Poem

The mist o'er the dark woods
Hangs whiter than snow,
And the dead leaves keep surging
And moaning below!
What treads through their dim aisles?
Now answer me fair—
'T is not the bat's flabby wing
Beating the air!

A sweet vision rises,
Though dimly defined,
And a hand on my forehead
Lies cold as the wind!
I clasp the white bosom,
No heart beats beneath;
From the lips, once so lovely,
Forth issues no breath.

The red moon was climbing
The rough rocks behind,
And the dead leaves kept moaning,
As now, in the wind;
The white stars were shining
Through cloud-rifts above,
When first in these dim woods
I told her my love.

Half fond, half reproachful,
She gazed in my face,
And, shrinking, she suffered
My fervid embrace:
And speaking not, lingered
With love's bashful art,
Till the light of her dark eyes
Burned down to my heart!

Like the leaf of the lily
When Autumn is chill,
The little hand trembled
That now is so still;
And I knew the sweet passion,
Her lips only sighed
In the hush of her chamber—
The night that she died!

O'er the shroud of the pale one
I made then a vow
To kiss back the crimson
Of life to her brow,
If she from the still grave
Would come, as she hath,
And walk at the midnight
This lone forest path.

The cloud-rifts are closing,
The white stars are gone,
But the hushed step of Darkness
Moves solemnly on.
I call the dead maiden,
But win no reply—
She has gone, and for ever,—
Would I too could die.