Beyond the lunar shallow,
down passed the silver cove,
flew a form so fallow,
through sorrows vale she wove.
Her eyes, they gleamed, though vapid,
(from tears one may surmise)
her breath was short and rapid
amid her mournful cries.
I followed, quick in treading,
this spectre in distress.
Though heedless of her heading
I pursued her nonetheless.
Into a copse she hastened,
I too arrived anon,
where then myself I chastened
for she, alas, had gone!
No comments:
Post a Comment