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For ever gliding on the water's breast
As shadowy mist that hath no rest,
But wanders idly to and fro
Whithersoe'er the wavering winds may blow?
Thou mystic spirit tell,
Why in the hollow murmurs of that bell
Which load the passing wind,
Each deep full tone but echoes to my mind
The footfall of the dead—
The almost voiceless, nameless tread,
And restless stirring to and fro of those
To whom the grave itself can never yield repose,
But whose dark, guilty sprites
Wander and wail with glowworm lights
Within the circle of the yew tree's shade,
Until the gray cock flaps his wings,
And the dubious light of morn upsprings
O'er yonder hoar hills' dewy head?
And say, while seated under this grey arch
Where old Time oft in sooth
Hath whet his pitiless tooth,
And gnawed clean through
Its ivy and moss-velvet coat of greenest hue,
I watch the moon's swift march
