'Tis midnight! and pale Melancholy stands Beside me, wearing a funereal wreath Of yew and cypress; the faint dirge of death Moans in her breathing, while her withered hands Fling corse-bedecking rosemary around. She offers nightshade, spreads a winding-sheet, Points to the clinging clay upon her feet, And whispers tidings of the charnel ground. Oh!...Learn More