Lone shadows move,
The night air stirs;
This hour of dying
Dreams was hers.

In this dusk place
Her throat gleamed white
In glimmering beauty
Of starlight.

Nightingales sang
Exultant bliss;
The snared stars saw us
Sway, and kiss.

Now the bats whirr,
The barn owls hoot,
Her loveliness
Is dust, is mute.

Peace comes not here,
No dream-bird trills:
They haunt her lodging
In the hills.