 |
|
Fair Phantom, come! The moon's awake,
The owl hoots gaily from its brake, |
| |
The blithesome bat's a-wing. |
Come, soar to yonder silent clouds;
The ether teems with peopled shrouds:
We'll fly the lightsome spectre crowds, |
| |
Thou cloudy, clammy thing! |
Though there are others, spectre mine,
With eyes as hollow, quite, as thine, |
| |
That thrill me from above — |
Whose lips are quite as deathly pale,
Whose voices rival thine in wail
When, riding on the joyous gale, |
| |
They breathe sepulchral love. |
Still, there's a modest charm in thee,
That causes thee to seem to be |
| |
More pure than others are — |
Though rich in calico and bone,
Thou art not beautiful alone —
For thou art also good, my own! |
| |
And that is better, far. |
United, we'll defy alarms:
A death-time in each other's arms
We'll pass — and fear no dearth |
| |
Of jollity: when Morpheus flits |
O'er mortal eyes, we'll whet our wits,
And frighten people into fits |
| |
Who did us harm on earth! |
Come, essence of a slumb'ring soul,
Throw off thy maidenly control |
| |
Un-shroud thy ghastly face! |
Give me thy foggy lips divine,
And let me press my mist to thine,
And fold thy nothingness in mine, |
| |
In one long damp embrace. |
| |
[She does. |
|
