Small lurid clouds
Veil and unveil the moon; while, through the lone
Wild Phrygian woods, hot gusts of storm-wind moan.
Each shadow shrouds
Some unknown conscious harm; and all around
Glide unseen rustling things upon the ground.
The air seems full of grabbing hands, and crowds
Of evil fancies wake at every sound.
Now in the night
The sorceress prowls, while others slumber deep,
Cursing the God who robs her of her sleep.
The moon’s vague light
Makes her knife gleam, as, muttering low,
She seeks the thrice-curst mandrake which uprooted shrieks,
Such shrieks as drive the unexpecting wight
Who hears them, mad, and blanch her own white cheeks.
Now sound strange sighs,
If it be true that evil spirits love,
And seek each other when the moon above
Half veils her eyes;
The woods repeat unhallowed coos and calls,
Kisses and sobs of love whose sound appals
Beyond all shrieks, all moanings and all cries,
While passion grows as deeper shadow falls.