Stood a fierce and ghoulish demon all the day;
And the murky ink was lighted
With a fiendish fire that blighted
Every sprite of good that on its bosom lay.
And my pen, from Love’s own quiver,
Wrought of gold, began to shiver
With a fearful quaking terror born of death
As I touched the hellish-lighted
Surface of the Ink that frighted
Pluto’s self and stole Persephone’s sweet breath.