Hands on the window-sill
I hear but cannot see.
Ghosts riding down the hill
I see but cannot hear.
My heart is cold with fear
Of every trembling tree.
The day has never been,
And day will never be.
And Night is very lean,
And Death is very swift.
And green eyes blink and shift
Through every monstrous tree.
Black arms across the night,
And hands I may not flee,
And fingers grasping tight
That choke my little cries,
And I shall have green eyes
Within a phantom tree.