“Come, surly fellow, come! A song!
“What, madmen? Sing to you?
Choose from the clouded tales of wrong
And terror I bring to you.
Of a night so torn with cries,
Honest men sleeping
Start awake with glaring eyes,
Bone chilled, flesh creeping.
Of spirits in the web-hung room
Up above the stable,
Groans, knocking in the gloom
The dancing table.
Of demons in the dry well
That cheep and mutter,
Clanging of an unseen bell,
Blood, choking the gutter.
Of lust, frightful, past belief,
Lurking unforgotten,
Unrestrainable, endless grief
From breasts long rotten.
A song? What laughter or what song
Do flowers and butterflies belong
To a blind December?”
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