BEHIND black woods the pale
Moonlight is sifting.
To God the nightingale
Her song is lifting.
The low tones float and linger,
Blend and expire,
And I hear the brook's white finger
Plucking her lyre.
In the wood there is one flower
Death has chosen;
(Soon, soon, perhaps, my hour!)
Its heart is frozen.
Let the last flower die.
From clods that smother
Its seeds, toward a fairer sky
Rises another.
O Darkness ! perhaps soon
Here in the deathless
Path of thy summer moon,
I shall lie breathless.
Though the shadow of death is blue,
Smile, thou immortal!
And bear my last sigh through
Dawn's scarlet portal.
Moonlight is sifting.
To God the nightingale
Her song is lifting.
The low tones float and linger,
Blend and expire,
And I hear the brook's white finger
Plucking her lyre.
In the wood there is one flower
Death has chosen;
(Soon, soon, perhaps, my hour!)
Its heart is frozen.
Let the last flower die.
From clods that smother
Its seeds, toward a fairer sky
Rises another.
O Darkness ! perhaps soon
Here in the deathless
Path of thy summer moon,
I shall lie breathless.
Though the shadow of death is blue,
Smile, thou immortal!
And bear my last sigh through
Dawn's scarlet portal.
