The Ghost

Softly as brown-eyed Angels rove
I will return to thy alcove
And glide upon the night to thee
Treading the shadows silently
And when returns the livid morn
Thou shalt find all my place forlorn
And chilly, till the falling night
And I will give to thee, my own
Kisses as icy as the moon
And the caresses of a snake
Cold gliding in the thorny brake
Others would rule by tenderness
Over thy life and youthfulness
But I would conquer thee by fright!