I. Les Silhouettes.

            The sea is flecked with bars of grey
            The dull dead wind is out of tune,
            And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.

            Etched clear upon the pallid sand
            The black boat lies: a sailor boy
            Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.

            And overheard the curlews cry,
            Where through the dusky upland grass
            The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.

II. La Fuite De La Lune.

            To outer senses there is peace,
            A dreamy peace on either hand,
            Deep silence in the shadowy land,
Deep silence where the shadows cease.

            Save for a cry that echoes shrill
            From some lone bird disconsolate;
            A corncrake calling to its mate;
The answer from the misty hill.

            An suddenly the moon withdraws
            Her sickle from the lightening skies,
            And to her sombre cavern flies,
Wrapped in a veil of yellow gauze.

This poem is in the public domain.


'The wind doth blow today, my love,  
  And a few small drops of rain;  
I never had but one true-love;  
  In cold grave she was lain.  

'I'll do as much for my true-love 
  As any young man may;  
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave  
  For a twelvemonth and a day.'  

The twelvemonth and a day being up,  
  The dead began to speak:
'Oh who sits weeping on my grave,  
  And will not let me sleep?'—  

''Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,  
  And will not let you sleep;  
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
  And that is all I seek.'—  

'You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips;  
  But my breath smells earthy strong;  
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,  
  Your time will not be long.

''Tis down in yonder garden green,  
  Love, where we used to walk,  
The finest flower that ere was seen  
  Is wither'd to a stalk.  

'The stalk is wither'd dry, my love,
  So will our hearts decay;  
So make yourself content, my love,  
  Till God calls you away.'

This poem is in the public domain.