The moon looks cold
On the withered wold;
The wind blows fierce and free:
The thin snow sifts
And stings and drifts,
Blown by the haunted tree.
The gnarled tree groans;
And sighs and moans,
And shudders to its roots:
Is it the fear
Of a footstep near?
Or the owl in its top that hoots?
Is it a gust
Of thin snow-dust,
The wind sweeps from the plain?--
Is it a breeze
That wails and drees?--
Christ sain thee, Floramane!
The moon hangs white
In the winter night:
The wind blows fierce and free:
And Floramane
Her place hath ta'en
Beneath the haunted tree.
What is it whines?
What is it shines
With owlet-eldritch light?--
With raven plume
Forth from the gloom
A man stalks, still and white.
His face is dim;
His sword swings grim;
His long cloak flutters wide:
His kiss falls bleak
On her mouth and cheek,
As he folds her to his side.
What is it gleams?
What is it streams
So wan on Floramane?--
The moonlit breeze?
Or his heart, she sees
Through the stab, like a burning stain?