Danske Dandridge

The Night Watch

A shrouded woman sits through the dark night
Upon the old roots of an oak, alone;
She hears the wind; she sees no point of light:
She rocks herself, and cries, and maketh moan.
           
The night grows wilder, and the owl is out,
The field-mice tremble to his shivering cry,
The mad wind beats the homeless leaves about,
Thin shapes of evil souls are hurtled by.
           
She moans as one that mutters in his sleep,
With cold and writhen lips that dully rave:
“Lo, I have murdered Love and lain him deep.
And I must sit and watch beside his grave.”