A sunken precinct here we keep,
With woven wiles of endless sleep;
Our twisted stems of sere-hued green,
Our pallid blooms what sun has seen?
And he that tastes our magic breath
Shall sleep that sleep whose name is death.
Wild clouds are scurrying overhead,
The wild wind’s voice is loud and dread,
Sounding the knell of the dying day,
Yet here is silence and gloom alway.