FATA MORGANA SWEET illusions of Song, That tempt me everywhere, In the lonely fields, and the throng Of the crowded thoroughfare! I approach, and ye vanish away, As the weary traveller sees Fair towns with turrets high, So I wander and wander along, In the beautiful land of dreams. But when I would enter the gate THE HAUNTED CHAMBER E ACH heart has its haunted chamber, Where the silent moonlight falls! On the floor are mysterious footsteps, And mine at times is haunted By the silent moonlight cast. A form sits by the window, For as soon as the dawn approaches It vanishes away. It sits there in the moonlight, Itself as pale and still, And points with its airy finger Without, before the window, There stands a gloomy pine, Whose boughs wave upward and downwar As wave these thoughts of mine. And underneath its branches Is the grave of a little child, Who died upon life's threshold, And never wept nor smiled. What are ye, O pallid phantoms ! What are ye, O pallid phantoms! |