The ghostly fire that walks the fen,

Tonight thine only light shall be;

On lethal ways thy soul shall pass,

And prove the stealthy, coiled morass,

With mocking mists for company.

On roads thou goest not again,

To shores where thou hast never gone,—

Fare onward, though the shuddering queach

And serpent-rippled waters reach

Like seepage-pools of Acheron,

Beside thee; and the twisten reeds,

Close-raddled as a witch’s net,

Enwind thy knees, and cling and clutch

Like wreathing adders; though the touch

Of the blind air be dank and wet,

As from a wounded Thing that bleeds

In cloud and darkness overhead—

Fare onward, where thy dreams of yore

In splendour drape the fetid shore

And pestilential waters dead.

And though the toads’ irrision rise,

As grinding of Satanic racks,

And spectral willows, gaunt and grey,

Gibber along thy shrouded way,

Where vipers lie with livid backs,

And watch thee with their sulphurous eyes,—

Fare onward, till thy feet shall slip

Deep in the sudden pool ordained,

And all the noisome draught be drained,

That turns to Lethe on the lip.