And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?
That face, alas! no more is fair;
Those lips no longer red:
Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death,
And every charm is fled.
The hungry worm my sister is;
This winding-sheet I wear: 50 And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.
But hark!--the cock has warn'd me hence;
A long and late adieu!
Come, see, false man, how low she lies, 55 Who dy'd for love of you.
The lark sung loud; the morning smil'd,
With beams of rosy red:
Pale WILLIAM quak'd in every limb,
And raving left his bed. 60
He hy'd him to the fatal place
Where MARGARET'S body lay:
And stretch'd him on the grass-green turf,
That wrap'd her breathless clay.
And thrice he call'd on MARGARET'S name, 65
And thrice he wept full sore:
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word spake never more!
I SAID to my Heart, between sleeping and waking,
Thou wild Thing, that ever art leaping or aching,