I

Is it uneasy moonlight, On the restless field, that stirs? Or wild white meadow-blossoms The night-wind bends and blurs?

Is it the dolorous water, That sobs in the wood and sighs? Or heart of an ancient oak-tree, That breaks and, sighing, dies?

The wind is vague with the shadows That wander in No-Man's-Land; The water is dark with the voices That weep on the Unknown's strand.

O ghosts of the winds that call me! O ghosts of the whispering waves! Sad as forgotten flowers That die upon nameless graves!

What is this thing you tell me In tongues of a twilight race, Of death, with the vanished features, Mantled, of my own face?