IN THE GREEN YEW

The wind is howling in angry pain,

Ah me, and I cannot rest;

On such a night home is best,

Why does she stand in the same old place

With the smile of smiles on her cold white face

And call me thro’ the rain?

Ah — the Wind has died from the Fear of her smile —

And I creep quite still —

On over the hill,

To where she stands‘ mid the scented yew

And where I now am standing too,

And she sees me all the while.

A little green snake curls thro’ her hair —

The scent of the yew is strong and sweet —

Her eyes have drawn me to her feet,

And I lie along on the drenching ground

And worship — and watch the snake curl round,

His tongue shoots thro’ the air.

Now — slowly she takes her eyes from me,

And I dream and wait,

Till in shades of hate

My love of her smile has faded quite

And I spring to kill her, there in the night —

But only the yew I see.