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The lonely man that sadly keeps
Watch by the blasted tree.
She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams,
To scare the cutting cold;
She lends me light to read my dreams,
And rightly to unfold
The mysteries that make men mad,
Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad.
So lovingly she shines through me,
Without me and within,
That even thou, methinks, might'st see,
Beneath this flesh so thin,
A heart that like a ball of fire
Is ever blazing there,
Yet dieth not; for still the lyre
Of heaven soothes its despair—
The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet,
When winds and woods and waters meet.
Hush! hush! so sang yon ghastly wood,
So moaned the sullen stream
One night, as two on this rock stood
Beneath this same moonbeam:—
