The Lady of fair weeping,
At the garden's core,
Sang a song of sweet and sore
And the after-sleeping;
In the land of Luthany, and the tracts of Elenore.

With sweet-panged singing
Sang she through a dream-night's day;
That the bowers might stay,
Birds bate their winging,
Nor the wall of emerald float in wreathed haze away.

The lily kept its gleaming,
In her tears (divine conservers)
Washed with sad art;
And the flowers of dreaming
Paled not their fervours,
For her blood flowed through their nervures;
And the roses were most red, for she dipped them in her heart.

But woe's me, and woe's me,
For the secrets in her eyes!
In my visions fearfully
They are ever shown to be
As fringed pools, whereof each lies
Pallid-dark beneath the skies
Of a night that is
But one necropolis.
And her eyes a little tremble, in the wind of her own sighs.

Where is the land of Luthany,
Where is the tract of Elenore?
I am bound therefor.

And as a necromancer
Raises from the rose-ash
The ghost of the rose;
My heart so made answer