WING thy race when the night comes down, My cream-white bird with the scarlet mouth, Fly to my dear in the sea-walled town, Where she dreams her life in the soundless south: Nestle thee close to her yearning breast With a flutter of wings and a frightened stare, And all the love-notes she loveth best Breathe there! Breathe there! My cream-white bird with the scarlet mouth. Out from the fog on the cold sea-wall, The death-witch comes with her ruined hands; The thread of her voice is thin and small, Yet it whines afar over goodly lands! God have thee in keeping, my cream-white bird, My gentle queen lulled in love's mysteries, -- God help thee! the tune of thy voice she has heard: She sees! She sees! The gaunt death-witch with the ruined hands. She is weaving and weaving thy winding-sheet, My beautiful love with the dreaming eyes; Her red tears fall and shall snare thy feet, My passionate bird with the soft milk cries. Her arm round thy musk-rose body she slips, On thy face the grey sorrow of age is thrown; Her leering mouth brushes the dew from thy lips: My own! My own! My beautiful love with the dreaming eyes. |