Now the clock is striking twelve,
all the lamps are burning low,
as the day's last book I shelve,
comes your whisper, soft and slow,
Must you go, alone to leave me,
You alone who can perceive me?
Or may
you stay
'til the breaking of the day?

I must leave and lock the door,
walk into the rainy night,
You who lived and died before,
tempt me not with words so bright,
I, who read your whims and rages,
in the rustling of pages,
must go
although
your sweet voice it lures me so.

If you love me leave me not,
what are we but words and wind?
I whose bones were left to rot,
You whose kiss was never sin,
Stay tonight and stay for always,
haunt the reading rooms, the hallways,
and we
will be
bound in death, forever, free.