The Demon Lover

The moon looks cold On the withered wold; The wind blows fierce and free: The thin snow sifts And stings and drifts, Blown by the haunted tree.

The gnarled tree groans; And sighs and moans, And shudders to its roots: Is it the fear Of a footstep near? Or the owl in its top that hoots?

Is it a gust Of thin snow-dust, The wind sweeps from the plain?-- Is it a breeze That wails and drees?-- Christ sain thee, Floramane!

The moon hangs white In the winter night: The wind blows fierce and free: And Floramane Her place hath ta'en Beneath the haunted tree.

What is it whines? What is it shines With owlet-eldritch light?-- With raven plume Forth from the gloom A man stalks, still and white.

His face is dim; His sword swings grim; His long cloak flutters wide: His kiss falls bleak On her mouth and cheek, As he folds her to his side.

What is it gleams? What is it streams So wan on Floramane?-- The moonlit breeze? Or his heart, she sees Through the stab, like a burning stain?