BEHIND black woods the pale
Moonlight is sifting.
To God the nightingale
Her song is lifting.

The low tones float and linger,
Blend and expire,
And I hear the brook's white finger
Plucking her lyre.

In the wood there is one flower
Death has chosen;
(Soon, soon, perhaps, my hour!)
Its heart is frozen.

Let the last flower die.
From clods that smother
Its seeds, toward a fairer sky
Rises another.

O Darkness ! perhaps soon
Here in the deathless
Path of thy summer moon,
I shall lie breathless.

Though the shadow of death is blue,
Smile, thou immortal!
And bear my last sigh through
Dawn's scarlet portal.