Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/122

 The lonely man that sadly keeps Watch by the blasted tree. She spreads o'er these lean ribs her beams, To scare the cutting cold; She lends me light to read my dreams, And rightly to unfold The mysteries that make men mad, Or wise, or wild, or good, or bad.

So lovingly she shines through me, Without me and within, That even thou, methinks, might'st see, Beneath this flesh so thin, A heart that like a ball of fire Is ever blazing there, Yet dieth not; for still the lyre Of heaven soothes its despair— The lyre that sounds so sadly sweet, When winds and woods and waters meet.

Hush! hush! so sang yon ghastly wood, So moaned the sullen stream One night, as on this rock stood Beneath this same moonbeam:—