The shadow of a lonely willow Swings Ghastly, ghastly;
The roads are lost In the hoary-haired mists of eve ; A strange green light in the distance Drifts As a wandering fay ;
I hear a wild cry In the dark air, In the stream, In the stars.
A bleak evening scene unfolds: a solitary willow’s shadow swings with a ghostly motion, roads disappear into pale, age-white mist, and a strange green light drifts far off like a wandering fairy. The repeated “ghastly, ghastly” makes the willow feel less like a plant than a troubled presence.
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