A cross-way in a solitude of pines;
And on the lonely cross-way you must draw
A bloody circle with a bloody sword;
And round the circle, runic characters,
Weird and symbolic: here a skull, and there
A scythe, and cross-bones, and an hour-glass here:
And in the centre, fed with coffin-wood,
Stolen from the grave of—say a murderer,
A fitful fire. Eleven of the clock
The first ball leaves the mold—the sullen lead