The wind is howling in angry pain,
Ah me, and I cannot rest;
On such a night home is best,
Why does she stand in the same old place
With the smile of smiles on her cold white face
And call me thro' the rain?
Ah--the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile--
And I creep quite still--
On over the hill,
To where she stands 'mid the scented yew
And where I now am standing too,
And she sees me all the while.
A little green snake curls thro' her hair--
The scent of the yew is strong and sweet--
Her eyes have drawn me to her feet,
And I lie along on the drenching ground
And worship--and watch the snake curl round,
His tongue shoots thro' the air.
Now--slowly she takes her eyes from me,
And I dream and wait,
Till in shades of hate
My love of her smile has faded quite
And I spring to kill her, there in the night--
But only the yew I see.