Ii

And in another way I know, Down in my soul a graveyard lies, Wherein I meet, in ghostly wise, With many an ancient tale of woe. A graveyard of the Capulets, Deep-vaulted with ancestral gloom, Through whose dark yews the moonlight jets On many a wildly carven tomb, That mossy mildew frets. A graveyard where the Soul’s Desire Sleeps, pale-entombed; and, kneeling by her, Love, like that hapless Montague, Year after year, Weary and worn and wild of hue, Within her sepulchre, Falls bleeding on her bier.