Grows rotten with the waning light;
And crawling shadows of the night
Lie on the body like a pall.
Dead spirits dance upon the slope;
Blatant are bat-things overhead;
But now the revenants have fled,
The glad fantasias yet grope.
Only the ghouls are gently stirred
By tainted gusts lost from the gale;
And in the faun-infested vale