 |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | [Poems by Payne in] John Howard Payne ... his life and writings |  |
His winding-sheet was a whirlpool's white spray,
And a bubble bore his last life-breath away;
Deep, deep lies the pilgrim beneath the cold stream,
And dimly his bones through the clear water gleam.
But at night
The false sprite
In pale moonshine oft glides from her damp-dropping hall,
The ghost of the wave-buried pilgrim to call;
And they dance, and they shriek o'er the wild waterfall!
And a bubble bore his last life-breath away;
Deep, deep lies the pilgrim beneath the cold stream,
And dimly his bones through the clear water gleam.
321
The false sprite
In pale moonshine oft glides from her damp-dropping hall,
The ghost of the wave-buried pilgrim to call;
And they dance, and they shriek o'er the wild waterfall!
| [Poems by Payne in] John Howard Payne ... his life and writings | |