The Clock Struck Twelve

The cluck struck twelve and from the stroke

I from my slumber deep awoke.
Within my dark room. I
A white figure espy
Soft gliding o'er the floor
And from my awed heart's core

There came a cry: "Thou'rt come sweetheart.

Upon my tree of bliss thou art

The fruit which too untimely fell
Come to my arms and let me tell

Thee my dear sweet fugitive dove:
My lips await thy kiss of love."

In accents soft and mild.

Reply came from the child:
"Wait, wait! first let me find
My life! to be consigned
Within the cold, dark tomb
Is a most awful doom.
It is so dark and drear
I want life warm and clear-
Pray then, give back to me
My life, alone with thee.
To live anew thou wilt me see!"

Beloved one! I can not give
What I have not, but if to live
Anew, thou need'st a soul, my own
I yield, 't is thine and thine alone!"

I strove -to give it her, but night

Had swallowed up the ghostly sight.