A figure passing through the hall
who moon-like glowing goes
her cloud-like tresses never fall,
nor touch the earth her toes.
A poor and murdered wretch, I think,
or suicide, I fear,
a spirit trapped upon the brink
between what's next and here.
What's not quite light, her glow grows dim,
the blue-green tints now fade,
and shaking in my every limb,
I wonder who's the maid.
Who was this girl, so airy now?
Who haunts this passageway?
Why yet no tales inform me how
her ghost came here to stay?
A mystery that all should be
so silent by the sea
except they know why she so goes;
in guilt their silence grows.
Tale Told 