To see that gait walk by the lunar glow
When time has ceased its ever-constant flow
A balance act of separate themes do clash
When that good heart melts into ebon ash
Those limbs that once were kept of rosy meat
Let nature craft horrific, mad, deceit
Behold! Arise from graves of restless sleep
Inject the night with constant sound and reap
Your treasures from the hopeless vagabonds
So that your hands – though now they are as spawned
Take hold of what you once were thought to be
And come and find me by the hunter’s tree
