I laid my heart on a stone...

I laid my heart on a stone

And stood in the wood to watch.

Presently a priest came by;

He hid it in his cowl

And buried it in the graveyard.

Now is it grown into a cyclamen tree,

Clustering over the wall,

Beckoning far along the twilight road;

Nodding and singing where the cypress moans,

Ringing its little bells while the great bell tolls.

Whiter than ghosts are its flowers,

And its scent is sweeter than ghostly music —

All the men and priests that pass

In the night when the stars lean down,

Smell the heavy fragrance there

And feel the gentle touch of dripping dew.

Then they cross themselves and go

Hurriedly, warily,

Dreaming of pale women,

Under the pale stars.