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The spectre high on Tybalt Hill Has shown himself tonight, Has bared his soul to travellers late Beneath the moon's pale light; And I would not have chanced to see him Had I not glanced at moonbeams fleeing Far from those windswept heights. His chilling silver shroud aglow He stands and waits, but no man knows For what, none of his hells perceives, Seeming at rest, whilst ill at ease. As if some sombre eulogy Were waiting to depart Down from the stage (yet sewn-closed lips Frustrate the solitary cast), He stands and waits; and, Oh, I fear His eyes are beckoning me near. I feel my footsteps quicken pace To home. Is this a winner's race? The wind, it whistles still outside As if the summoner's noose; But I would not leave fireside's warmth – No, not if I could choose. Spell-bound, my ghost is drawn in shackles Up to the heath where black-crows cackle, There to unearthly use. |
| (1976) |
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| photos: Stephen Alsford |
| Created: November 17, 2014. Last modified: January 27, 2015 | © Stephen Alsford |