Through valleys grey the whey-faced ghouls do wind
their way along the the dreaming night in files
that snakelike sway between the deep defiles,
and, howling, sing with cries that tortured mind
would shrink away in fear, with eyes made blind.
And bells do ring in pulsing pulsitiles
that warnings bay with voices heard for miles,
so young and old alike a haven find.
But none have seen the ghouls go passing by
with lanthorns green of glowing fungal fire,
lest nightfall bear a baleful weird to rest
that deep and dreadful nightmare can't suggest.
For though the day has dangers dark and dire,
no persons stray at night 'neath evil sky.