The Discovery
Thin wisps of clouds rush past the moon,
And cold winds shake the failing leaves.
The height of night is nighing soon.
As if the wood’s alive and grieves.
And here, within this forest grim,
The full moon mystic patterns weaves:
Distinct and edged, although quite dim.
The very wood’s alive and grieves.
Alone and lost, I hear the wind
Moan on. My weary soul believes
I hear the cries of those who’ve sinned,
No more alive, a legion grieves.
Why do I wander through this wood?
My sight is clouded, but perceives
Just up ahead, in shroud and hood
With Death’s Head! Nor alive, nor grieves!
Now, insubstantial, in the gloom,
This can’t be right! My sight deceives!
A stone stands there. It is my tomb!
Long ages dead! And no one grieves.
