Christabel

’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awaken’d the crowing cock; Tu—whit!———Tu—whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She makes answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Ever and aye, moonshine or shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: ’Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; Dreams, that made her moan and leap, As on her bed she lay in sleep; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that’s far away.