Clouds of the autumn night,
Under the hunter’s-moon,—
Ghostly and windy white,—
Whither, like leaves wild strewn,
Take ye your stormy flight?
Out of the west, where dusk,
From her red window-sill,
Leaned with a wand of tusk,
Witch-like, and wood and hill
Phantomed with mist and musk
Into the east, where morn
Sleeps in a shadowy close,
Shut with a gate of horn,
Round which the dreams she knows
Flutter with rose and thorn.
Blow from the west! oh, blow,
Clouds that the tempest steers!
And with your rain and snow
Bear of my heart the tears,
And of my soul the woe.
Into the east then pass,
Clouds that the night-winds sweep!
And on her grave’s sere grass,
There where she lies asleep,
There let them fall, alas!