Some lonely watcher waits and weeps,
Like me, the step that comes not yet;--
Her watch for weary hours is set,
While far below the city sleeps.

The level lamp-rays lay the floors,
And bridge the dark that lies below,
O'er which my fancies come and go,
And peep, and listen at the doors;

And bring me word how sweet and plain,
And quaint the lonely attic room,
Where she sits singing in the gloom,
Words sadder than the autumn rain.

A thousand times by sea and shore,
In my wild dreams I see him lie,
With face upturned toward the sky,
Murdered, and stiffening in his gore;--

Or drowned, and floating with the tide,
Within some lonely midnight bay,--
His arms stretched toward me where he lay,
And blue eyes staring, fixed and wide.

Oh winds that rove o'er land and sea!
Oh waves that lap the yellow sands!
Oh hide your stealthy, treacherous hands,
And call no more his name to me.'--