IX.

In a lonesome burial-place

Crouched a mourner white of face;

Wild her eyes — unheeding

Circling pomp of night and day —

Ever crying, “Well away,

Love lies a-bleeding!”

And her sighs were like a knell,

And her tears for ever fell,

With their warm rain feeding

That purpureal flower, alas!

Trailing prostrate in the grass,

Love lies a-bleeding.

Through the yews’ black-tufted gloom

Crimson light dripped on the tomb,

Funeral shadows breeding:

In the sky the sun's light shed

Dyed the earth one awful red —

Love lies a-bleeding.

Came grey mists, and blanching cloud

Bore one universal shroud;

Came the bowed moon leading,

From the infinite afar

Star that rumoured unto star —

Love lies a-bleeding.