At night’s bewitching hour exceeding twelve

When all the luminary bodies set

And darkness haunts the land

To make the forms of earth seem hideous,

Painted with death

The swelling ocean’s sand,

Drifting vessels, black, romantic yet

They stand, though shaded by day’s adversary,

When dawn and dusk seem furthest

And hallowed day unworthiest

‘Tis said by men of mind’s perfidious

That rising from Lethe

The bodies then of graves that diggers delve

Take precedence o’er the earth sans luminary

Guards to sanctify the grounds

To terrify the time

And make fantastic sounds

In crooked verse, sans rhyme,

Occult and vital.  But ’tis not then so–

The night’s a barren canvas of dreamful woe.

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