She mutters and stoops by the lone bayou--
The little green leaves are hushed on the trees--
An owl in an oak cries "Who-oh-who,"
And a fox barks back where the moon slants through
The moss that sways to a sudden breeze ...
Or _That_ she sees.
Whose eyes are coals in the light o' the moon--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon,
"_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"
She mutters and kneels and her bosom is bare--
The little green leaves are stirred on the trees--
A black bat brushes her unkempt hair,
And the hiss of a snake glides 'round her there ...
Or is it the voice of the ghostly breeze,
Or _That_ she sees,
Whose mouth is flame in the light o' the moon?--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon,
"_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"
She mutters and digs and buries it deep--
The little green leaves are wild on the trees--
And nearer and nearer the noises creep,
That gibber and maunder and whine and weep ...
Or is it the wave and the weariless breeze,
Or _That_ she sees,
Which hobbles away in the light o' the moon?--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear her croon,
"_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"
In the hut where the other girl sits with him--
The little green leaves hang limp on the trees--
All on a sudden the moon grows dim ...
Is it the shadow of cloud or of limb,
Cast in the door by the moaning breeze?
Or _That_ she sees,
Which limps and leers in the light o' the moon?--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear it croon,
"_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"
It has entered in at the open door--
The little green leaves fall dead from the trees--
And she in the cabin lies stark on the floor,
And she in the woods has her lover once more ...
And--is it the hoot of the dying breeze?
Or _him_ who sees,
Who mocks and laughs in the light o' the moon:--
"_Soon, oh, soon_," hear him croon,
"_Woe, oh, woe to the octoroon!_"
