THE GHOSTS' MOONSHINE.
I
It is midnight, my wedded;
Let us lie under
The tempest bright undreaded,
In the warm thunder:
(Tremble and weep not! What can you fear?)
My heart's best wish is thine,—
That thou wert white, and bedded
On the softest bier,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
Is that the wind? No, no;
Only two devils, that blow
Through the murderer's ribs to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
II
Who is there, she said afraid, yet
Stirring and awaking
The poor old dead? His spade, it
Is only making,—
(Tremble and weep not! What do you crave?)
Where yonder grasses twine,
A pleasant bed, my maid, that
Children call a grave,
In the cold moonshine.
Is that the wind? No, no;
Only two devils, that blow
Through the murderer's ribs to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
III
What dost thou strain above her
Lovely throat's whiteness?
A silken chain, to cover
Her bosom's brightness?
(Tremble and weep not: what do you fear?)
—My blood is spilt like wine,
Thou hast strangled and slain me, lover,
Thou hast stabbed me, dear,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
Is that the wind? No, no;
Only her goblin doth blow
Through the murderer's ribs to and fro,
In its own moonshine.
