But her eye is dim, and the sea is wide;
The fisherman's sail and the cloud flies free,
And the bird is mute in the rowan tree.
(Hark to the wind and the rain!)
The moon shone in on the turret stair,
(Flotsam and jetsam from over the sea,
The dead are bound with a chain.)
And touched her cheek and brightened her hair,
And found naught else in the world so fair,
So ghostly fair as the mad ladye,