The sedge was sere; the water still,
As waiting for the wintry chill;
When, shadow-like along the hill,
She moved alone.
The owl, upon a blasted limb,
From sepulchres of silence dim
Made charnel echoes mock for him
Their dying moan.
Upon the forehead of the night
The moon, foreboding in affright-
A film of solitary light-
Above her shone.
What meant the omen of the bird?
The moon with blinding vapours blurred?
What in her heart of anguish stirred
The stifled groan?
A plunge, a ripple, and a sigh
Of waters;-fleeting soul, reply,
Was it for death of Love to die,
Or to atone?