Earth is not Earth—but Heaven? or shall we die
Hourly, to some "dissolving minstrelsy?"
Sometimes, when day is dying—when twilight
Brings its dim Vigil,—hour of quietness,—
'Tis sweet to listen, till the cheated sight
Pictures strange shadowings of awfulness,—
Some wild, old tale of goblin's ghastly spite,
Or antique strain of passionate distress;—
And one, which has been wept o'er many a time
I seek, to mar, perchance, with feeble rhyme