Hear me whisper, whisper to you
Through these empty rooms,
See my dress in the ripple
Of the shot-silk evening glooms,
Think my hands on the spinet
When a quiet breeze stirs
And a tortured phoenix evening
Burns in the brooding firs.
See my face lifted to you again
Praying for some small boon
Less to your clear endeavour
Than the white jest of the moon.
Dead world, dead lady,
And your own heart a-dying . . .
Hush . . . turn away swiftly . . .
Itís not I you hear crying.