They roll and float like ghostly troops
Round Cestius' Pyramid in groups;
What are the dead there wanting?
Now bursts a light around the hill,
The leaden gray clouds are fast going;
The full moon's face rises slow and still,
With envy's yellow hue glowing.
She shines so pale, she shines so cold,
Right into the goblet which I hold;
That cannot be a good omen.