Dead

'Tis Midnight hour, and the Dead have power
Over the Wronger now!
He is tortured and torn by the crown of thorn
That fell from the Suicide's brow.

Wind him around in the toil of thy charms;

Nestle him close, young Bride!
At the Midnight hour he is drawn from thy arms;

Thro' the dark with the Dead he must ride.

The rose of her mouth is red:wet, red-warm:
She smiles in her heaven of calm.

Tost! hurried! and sered in a pitiless storm;
Slumber for him hath no balm.

He feels that ghostly groping along
The Corridor of Dreams!
And a dark Desolation Lightning-lit
Is his face by ghastly gleams!

Love's cup flushes up for his crowning kiss,
With his lip at the burning brim!

Lo, the Dead uncurtain his bower of bliss,
Stretching wild arms for him!

Wind him around in the toil of thy charms;

Nestle him close, young Bride!
Yet, at Midnight hour he is drawn from thy arms;

Thro' the dark with the Dead he must ride.

And the Dark hath a million burning Eyes,
All of his secret tell!
And the whispering winds are damn'd fiends
That hiss in his ears of Hell!

Warm in her bed the young Bride lies,
Breathing her peaceful breath:
Dead Mother and Babe with their drowned eyes
Stare dim thro' the watery death.

'Tis Midnight hour, and the Dead have power
Over the Wronger now!
He is tortured and torn by the crown of thorn
That fell from the Suicide's brow.