Sad moon shines on fields below --
soft and lunatic light!
But dark and cold themselves are chilled
with a darker shadow's fright.
Clip of hoof of herald-horse,
call of ram-theft horn:
terror rises in the hearts
of all from woman born.
Like famine, conquest, slaughter,
behind him endless hell,
pallid steed leads pallid hounds
in a hunt beyond all pale.
Some lilies bloom in darkest hell,
black their petals, with twilight stripes.
Miswrought scions of Asphodel,
their seeds, borne by winds of fire,
spread out through realms of night,
send forth scent of death, of mire,
of rotting corpses on battle-plain
where rusted blood is washed by rain.
Beware! That scent which cloys the air
of realms that know no life or light
will catch the mind and hold it there,
in shade and endless sleep to lie.