At the feast of the dead I watched thee
with the maidens in the Dance of Souls.
'T was there I watch'd thee
with maidens dancing.

The festal lights glimmer'd thro' the soft night
like floating fireflies.
Soft, slow was the dance,
soft, slow, gliding under the great moon.

Oh, my beloved, thou art like a bird,
like a bright bird, a bird with dancing wings, flying low.
And thy voice held all sweetness of all birds;
then, too, was holiday. But now?