SWIFT round and round yon yellow mound,
With grasses rank and pale,
Race stiffened leaves; a waking sound
Is on the autumn gale.

The night winds blow till heard below,
The graves unquiet be;
Now here, now there, shapes to and fro
Are moving silently.

The dead are up; they take the gale
That rakes the yellow mound.
Hark! laughter the~e! or was it wail?
Life does not know that sound.

The trees lean close, the owlets cry,
They wait the midnight swoon;
See! it is like a dead man’s eye,
The dim, the flying moon.