Mockery

I met my love a-weeping, Weeping in the night-tide pale; Her head among the lily bloom, Weeping by an empty tomb— An unshut tomb. I gently stroked her golden hair That shone so With the moon-glow In the sad-sweet air. Like playful breezes from the south Came soft smile-dimples to her mouth; And when again she seemed to weep I kissed her wild-wide eyes to sleep; While there beyond the lily bloom I saw the watching, waiting tomb. I left my love a-sleeping, Sleeping in the cypress vale; Smiling sadly in the gloom; Sleeping in the fastened tomb— The tight-shut tomb. How round the tomb the moving mists Will twirl so When the wind blows, That the ivy twists And shudders round the cold grey stone: A serpent on a crumbling throne. While I, upon a nearby mound Hear salt tears soaking in the ground; But there, when’er the lilies bloom, I hear low laughter in the tomb.