And I catch but a shapeless sound,
For the Living are Ghosts to me.
Come buy—come buy!—
Hark! how the sweet things sigh
(For they have a voice like ours,)
“The breath of the Blind Girl closes
The leaves of the saddening roses—
We are tender, we sons of Light,
We shrink from this child of Night;
From the grasp of the Blind Girl free us,