Explore "Songs" by Helen Hay Whitney on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
There's a white, white road lies under the swinging moon, / Stretched from the black of the deep to the black of the deep, / And midway the graveyard lies, with its leaves a-croon, / The only sound of the world, like a dream in sleep.
There's a white, white grave lies under the graveyard trees, / Hung on the road as a single pearl on a thread, / And silence waits, beast crouched, on the rim of the breeze, / That moans where the only man in the world lies dead.