Cold as mushrooms are her hands,
Cold and white,
As she awaits me in the night
Where Saint Michael's steeple stands.

Cold as mushrooms are her lips
In the dew,
Kissing mine beneath the yew
As within my arm she slips.

And I learn naught from her cold
Lightless eyes
Of her day-dreams as she lies
Underneath the heavy mould.

Once her hands were brown as mine
When we stood
In the little rowan-wood
By the waters of the Tyne,

And her parted lips were bright
And as red
As the berries overhead
In the still October light.

And I promised I'd be true
To her there ...
And the rowan trees are bare ...
And we meet beneath the yew.