Osbert Sitwell

IN Dead Man’s Wood

The rustling trees

Shiver, shudder

In the breeze.

The bird-song drips

On Dead Man’s Wood,

Trickles through

Like falling blood.

And if the sun

Gives forth its light,

The yellow glory

Turns ash-white.

The dark tall trees,

When day is past,

Draw back their leaves,

Pale and aghast.

When rusty shadows

Fall at dusk,

Surely the spirit

Leaves its husk?

All night, all day,

Within this cover,

I sit and wait

For my dead lover.