 | Phantasmagoria |  |
61
The Lady of the Tombs.
Whiter than marble,
And stiller than death,
Where no bird dare warble
But under its breath,
She sits in the shadow,
She cowers in the gloom,
Of the mystical meadow
That leads to the tomb.
And stiller than death,
Where no bird dare warble
But under its breath,
She sits in the shadow,
She cowers in the gloom,
Of the mystical meadow
That leads to the tomb.
Her yellow locks whiten,
But 'tis not with age;
Her fitful eyes brighten
With murderous rage.
Her lips move not: no mirror
Would dim with her breath.
She is still as the terror
And presence of death.
But 'tis not with age;
Her fitful eyes brighten
With murderous rage.
Her lips move not: no mirror
Would dim with her breath.
She is still as the terror
And presence of death.
Now with passionate gesture
A moment confessed,
She rends her gold vesture,
She bares her pale breast.—
But no heart beats beneath it,
There, locked in the vice
Of the hard snows that sheathe it,
Is a lump of cold ice.
A moment confessed,
She rends her gold vesture,
She bares her pale breast.—
But no heart beats beneath it,
There, locked in the vice
Of the hard snows that sheathe it,
Is a lump of cold ice.
March 10th, 1886
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