The churchyard, clad in ivy’s grasp

Beneath the yew’s eternal gloom, where moonlight dares not creep,
The earth lies cold, a silent tomb, where broken angels weep.
The wind doth moan, a spectral cry, through ruins bleak and hoar,
And bids my heart, with trembling sigh, to wander evermore.

O fleeting life, thou fragile flame, that flickers in the storm,
Thy glow is lost to death’s acclaim, thy beauty but a form.
In halls where once the minstrel played, now shadows hold their court,
And dust upon the banquet laid doth mock what joy was sought.

The raven perches on the stone, his eyes like embers burn,
He speaks of souls that roam alone, to nevermore return.
The churchyard, clad in ivy’s grasp, entombs my love’s sweet face,
Her laughter stilled, her gentle clasp, now lost to time’s embrace.

By night I tread the heath forlorn, where mists like spirits rise,
And hear the bell, with tolling scorn, pronounce my heart’s demise.
The stars, though bright, no comfort lend, their cold and distant gaze
Doth pierce my breast, and bid me bend beneath my wretched days.

O Death, thou specter clad in frost, why linger at my side?
Thy bony hand hath all I lost, yet still I bide thy tide.
In dreams, I see her marble brow, her eyes that once did shine,
But wake to find the grave’s cold vow hath claimed what once was mine.

Let tempests rage, let oceans wail, let darkness veil the skies,
My soul shall wander, wan and pale, where hope forever dies.
Beneath the yew, I’ll lay me down, and join the silent throng,
To sleep where love and light are drowned, in night’s eternal song.