In the hollow spaces I see a face
As I go whistling to my Dear,
And in those lineaments I trace
The ultimate Fear.
Throned on the dark that face I see,
As I go whistling to my Doll;
Of human terror the apogee--
Fol-de-rol!
The wreckage of the whole damned race,
As I go whistling to my white bird,
Is in that wavering ghastly face
That speaks no word!
Is that face moulded by treachery
As I go whistling to my Poll,
And carved by lust out of lechery?
Fol-lol-de-rol!
Has it woven itself out of ancient sorrows
As I go whistling to my maid,
Out of all the To-days that to all the To-morrows
Shriek--“betrayed!”
I like not to see that face in the night,
As I go whistling to my own:
A terrible face for the sweet moonlight
To shine upon!
But as long as those lips utter no sound,
As I go whistling to my Troll,
All is yet well above the ground,
Fol-lol-de-rol!
Oh white, white lips that hang so mute,
As I go whistling to my Love,
That ultimate Fear would be absolute
If you should move!