William Griffith

Softly at dawn a whisper stole
   Down from the Green House on the Hill,
Enchanting many a ghostly bole
   And wood-song with the ancient thrill.
...

Pierrette has gone, but it was not
   Exactly that she died,
So much as vanished and forgot
   To tell where she would hide.
...

I, who fade with the lilacs
And with the roses fade,
Am sharing this hour with them
...

The Moon puts on her silver veil
And shawl of lace: and with far lutes
And violins in many a dale
The thrushes blow their woodland flutes.
...