Four Songs

More dim than waning moon
Thy face, more faint
Than is the falling wind
Thy voice, yet do
Thine eyes most strangely glow,
Thou ghost ... thou ghost.

I make my shroud but no one knows,
So shimmering fine it is and fair,
With stitches set in even rows.
I make my shroud but no one knows.

In door-way where the lilac blows,
Humming a little wandering air,
I make my shroud and no one knows,
So shimmering fine it is and fair.

Oh Lady, let the sad tears fall
To speak thy pain,
Gently as through the silver dusk
The silver rain.

Oh, let thy bosom breathe its grief
In such soft sigh
As hath the wind in gardens where
Pale roses die.

Never the nightingale,
   oh my dear,
 Never again the lark
   Thou wilt hear;
Though dusk and the morning still
Tap at thy window-sill,
Though ever love call and call
Thou wilt not hear at all,
 My dear, my dear.