When in the evening on my hut the moon
Spreads her soft silver nets that dreams have wrought,
The hut is caught, and, by the net bewitched,
It changes and becomes a lofty tower.

And then, unseen by the Day's Sun, the father
Of Health, the rosy-cheeked, who always sees
All things with careless and short-sighted eyes,
A monstrous vision lo, the Fairy Illness,
Stripped in the silver glimmer of the moon,
Herself of moonlight born, looms into sight
Slowly in the enchanted tower's midst!

In whitening shimmers, she, like sea at night,
Advances with the step of sleeping men;
Death's pallor is her own, though not Death's chill;
Her ivory skeleton is mantled by
A fleshy cover made of fiery air;
The uncouth flowers on her dragging veil
Seem, like the poppies, crimson red and black;
And still more uncouth look the countless things
Wrought on its folds: dragons and ogresses,
Fevers and lethargies and pains of heart,
Nightmares and storms and earthquakes, breaking nerves.

Delirium flies from her burning lips,
A language made of odd, discordant rhythms.
To nothing, either hers or strange, her eyes
Are like; deep, as abyss untrod, they yawn,
And seem as if they gaze immovable
On empty space. Yet shouldst thou stoop with thirst
To mirror on her staring eyes thine own,
Then wouldst thou see worlds buried in their caves,
Like ruined cities of whole centuries,
Sunk in the fairy-spangled oceans' depths!