Poplars are standing there still as death

And ghosts of dead men

Meet their ladies walking

Two by two beneath the shade

And standing on the marble steps.

There is a sound of music echoing

Through the open door

And in the field there is

Another sound tinkling in the cotton:

Chains of bondmen dragging on the ground.

The years go back with an iron clank,

A hand is on the gate,

A dry leaf trembles on the wall.

Ghosts are walking.

They have broken roses down

And poplars stand there still as death.