Arthur

Mysterious as the night, Shadowy figure of towering height, Eyes of black, perhaps contrite, He walks in starlight. The night is fine, As the oaks intertwine. From a window of mine, I watch him pass the vine. Sleep is not imminent, In this hour of discontent, When thoughts won't relent. I am anguish. I am torment! The clock says three. Nightingale sings in tree. In my soul, there's little harmony. In my heart is a plea. When red sun's gone down, Sometimes Arthur haunts the town. In silence we drown. Torn wedding gown!