The Isle of the Dead

See the cyprus darkly swaying,
On the island of the dead,
Hearken to the sea wind baying,
Loud as banshees wailing dread.

Feel the elemental bluster,
Set against the yellow walls,
Racing through the stony cluster—
Haunting in its eerie calls.

I can smell the foamy spittle,
Jumping from the breakers’ crest,
Coral reef so very brittle,
And in olive seaweed dressed.

I am but a ghost in mourning,
Though in fleshy form I dwell,
Meditating from the dawning,
On the dreamy ocean swell.

I am of a dead succession,
Though my breath proceeds anon,
Ghostly beings my obsession,
From the rising of the sun.

I am stuck in bitter yearning,
For my husband in the tomb,
At his gravestone, weeping, burning,
Strong with cyclamen perfume.

Tears wet upon my person—
Reaching for the phantom past,
Sorrow that with time dost worsen,
Though I’ll be with him at last.

Etchings on the marble surface,
Names of spirits dead and gone,
Flowers withered from the service,
All too sad to look upon.

Jasmine with her bright confetti,
Decorates this solemn knoll,
Down the cliff and to the jetty,
Such a solace to my soul.

Now the wretched sea dost woo me,
With her sibilants and breath,
Lost in lonely purgatory,
Contemplating silent death.

ADL