Good Novel
At noon the weak, white sunlight crawls,
Like feeble feet once beautiful,
From mildewed walks to mildewed walls,
Down which the oozing moisture falls
Upon the cold toadstool.
Faint on the leaves it drips and creeps -
Or is it tears of one who weeps?
At night a misty blur of moon
Slips through the trees, - pale as a face
Of melancholy marble hewn; -
And, like the phantom of some tune,
Winds whisper in the place. -
Or is it love come back again,
Seeking its perished joy in vain?
3
She muses upon the past.
When in her cloudy chiton,
Spring freed the frozen rills,