Far-falling from a wounded heaven,
The sunset, on the pool of jet,
Is shed like faded blood.

The shadows of night, beyond the water,
Nest without sound in the cypress
With the tired and heavy raven.

Seised by some black enchantment,
A proud tomb dissolves in the twilight,
Like a phantom, slowly.

Like to sated ghouls,
The yew-trees, bowed above the ossuary,
Are drowsy and tranquil.

The day, a dying memory,
Wanders lost in the mournful wood,
And drowns beneath the black pool.

. . . . . .

Far-falling from a wounded heart,
My love, on the waters of Lethe,
Is shed like faded blood.