When sun has set and shade’s beget,
See who with glee the twilight’s met,
They of willow and of rot,
They who grace the witches’ pot,
They of footstep soft as murmur,
They who rise from fallen timber,
Who the wakened world forgot,
Who has thus embraced their lot,
They of moonlight and of ripple,
They who suckle offered nipple,
Of a world most have passed by,
Heedless of its mournful cry,
They of fern and elder spruce,
They who tighten long-felt noose,
About the neck of children young,
As you climb the thousandth rung,
Of a ladder rising ever,
The strings of your sanity are severed,
‘Til you step on yonder shore,
Having reached your nevermore