A knowing some ill shape is nigh,
A wish for death, a fear to die,—
Is not this vengeance, Rosaline!
A loneliness that is not lone,
A love quite withered up and gone,
A strong soul trampled from its throne,—
What would’st thou further, Rosaline!
’Tis lone such moonless nights as these,
Strange sounds are out upon the breeze,
And the leaves shiver in the trees,