The Ghost

Softly as brown-eyed Angels rove
I will return to thy alcove
And glide upon the night to thee
Treading the shadows silently

And when returns the livid morn
Thou shalt find all my place forlorn
And chilly, till the falling night

And I will give to thee, my own
Kisses as icy as the moon
And the caresses of a snake
Cold gliding in the thorny brake

Others would rule by tenderness
Over thy life and youthfulness
But I would conquer thee by fright!