 | Thought and word |  |
70
PHANTAST.
“The monument woos me.”
Second Maiden's Tragedy.
Second Maiden's Tragedy.
Everything that seeks to do thee harm
Hearkens to the song that I am singing.
Sly and winding worm is in his hole,
Ruddy shrewmice listen in their burrow;
Wasps are nested by thee, but the charm
Keeps that yellow robber-band from stinging;
In thy bed of clay the howking mole
Bores no tunnel thorough.
Now that day from heaven is gone,
Thou art smoothly dreaming on,—
Not to waken with the dawn.
Hearkens to the song that I am singing.
Sly and winding worm is in his hole,
Ruddy shrewmice listen in their burrow;
Wasps are nested by thee, but the charm
Keeps that yellow robber-band from stinging;
In thy bed of clay the howking mole
Bores no tunnel thorough.
Now that day from heaven is gone,
Thou art smoothly dreaming on,—
Not to waken with the dawn.
Only now the moaning of the breeze
Answers to the song that I am singing.
In the moonlit dyke the crouching hare
Raises up her watchful ears to listen;
From the blackness of the ghostly trees
Swift and silent bats like Dreams are winging;
Round the grassy hummocks here and there
Elfin tapers glisten.
Whilst the wind's sad tale is told,
Thou art lapt up from the cold
In a blanket made of mould.
Answers to the song that I am singing.
In the moonlit dyke the crouching hare
Raises up her watchful ears to listen;
From the blackness of the ghostly trees
Swift and silent bats like Dreams are winging;
Round the grassy hummocks here and there
Elfin tapers glisten.
Whilst the wind's sad tale is told,
Thou art lapt up from the cold
In a blanket made of mould.
71
Many nights and many days have heard
Songs of mine like this that I am singing;
By the sun, or by this paler round;
In the dark, when shrouded stars are weeping;
When the old tower shakes his ivy-beard,
When the skiey thunder-bells are ringing;
Hurtful things that live below the ground
From thy pillow keeping.
And when I have leave to die,
Then an Angel from the sky
Comes to watch us where we lie.
Songs of mine like this that I am singing;
By the sun, or by this paler round;
In the dark, when shrouded stars are weeping;
When the old tower shakes his ivy-beard,
When the skiey thunder-bells are ringing;
Hurtful things that live below the ground
From thy pillow keeping.
And when I have leave to die,
Then an Angel from the sky
Comes to watch us where we lie.
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