He stopped nor stayed where the dead were laid
In purple and in pall,
But he sought a mound at the wall’s far bound,
Where thistle and dock grew tall.
He hid his brow amid the grass,
And the words he spake were three:
“Oh, sweet Marg’ret, oh, dear Marg’ret,
Wake, wake, and speak to me!”
’Twas when the waning moon rose up,
And night waxed chill and cold,
That he heard a murmur from the grave
And a low voice from the mould.
Most like the moan of a mourning wind
That voice did speak and say:
“I had thought to lie in the kindly earth
Asleep till Judgment Day,
“With heart so still, and closèd eyne,
And hands across my breast—
There’s never a voice in the world but thine
Could call me from my rest.”
’Twas at the hour before the dawn,
When hushed was every sound,
That the dead corpse stirred within the grave,
And rose up out o’ the ground—
Rose up, and stood in the wan moonlight
All in her winding-sheet—
Sir Herluin, he hid his face,
And lay still at her feet.
“Oh Herluin! oh Herluin!
Didst hold my heart in fee—
And the grave’s not deep nor wide enough
To sunder me and thee.”
“Margaret, oh Margaret!
Can love be strong as death?”
“Love breaks not with the broken heart,
Nor flies with the fleeting breath.”
“Ah, love! The pain I cost thee
Was a bitter pain and fell;
And, but thou canst forgive it me,
’Twill hale my soul to hell.”