Thou art weary, weary, weary,
Thou art weary and far away!
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me;
Come before the dawn of day.
I hear a small voice from the hill,
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still –
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.
And in the cleft of heaven I scan
The giant form of a naked man;
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.
All is not well: by dint of spell,
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this light a wild deray;
The spirits have wander’d from their way.
The purple drops shall tinge the moon,
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.
Be as it will, I have the skill
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