Like pulsing of a moonlight lute it fell,
Lulling my senses with a rhythmic spell.
I know not if I slumbered, but anon
Those odious limbs about my own were thrown;
I started up with thick and laboring breath,
And sickening loathing almost unto death;
“O Christ!” I cried, lo, at that sacred name
The foul shape vanished, and instead one came
Clad in soft light as from an inner flame,
And held an ebon cross whereon there bled