Poems (Chitwood)/Haunted
HAUNTED.
Blow, west winds, blow away my tears As clouds from stars, and let me seeIf, in the deep repose of years, She's sleeping still beneath the tree.
For sometimes, when the winds are strong, Tearing the leaves of red and gold,The voice, that had been mute so long, Speaks in a whisper thick and cold.
I strain mine eyes to look, to-night, If haply, 'neath-the misty stars,I see her shroud, so still and white, Faring beneath the windy bars.
For foes have said she doth not sleep Serenely in the grave's black fold,That injured ghosts come back to keep The life-blood running quick and cold.
What time the round moon goeth down, And midnight's wierd, wild phantoms rise,She twines about my brow a crown Of serpents, with their blood-red eyes.
I feel her soft hand's pressure light— My heart stops beating, mute with fears And ceaseless, on my pillow white, I hear the dropping of her tears.
The morn comes on, the blossoms hold On her low grave their cups of dew;I see no opening in the fold Of the green turf to let her through.
Blow, west winds, blow away my tears As clouds from stars, and answer me:Is it but conscience, wild with fears, Conjures the phantom that I see?