In its dry veins must blood be none.
Those ghastly fingers, white and cold,
Within a winding-sheet enfold;
Count the mystic count of seven;
Name the Governors of Heaven,
Then in earthly vessel place them,
And with dragon-wort encase them;
Bleach them in the noon-day sun,
Till the marrow melt and run,
Till the flesh is pale and wan.