With sickly blood, and terribly aghast!
And sunken in its socket like the light
Of a red taper in the lonely night!
And there is not a braid of her bright hair
But lieth floating in the moonlight air,
Like the long moss beside a silver spring,
In elfin tresses, sadly murmuring.
The worm hath ’gan to crawl upon her brow—
The living worm! and with a ripple now,
Like that upon the sea, are heard below