I shall have written to you of the black,
Ere chants of pain with cries of woe are twined
Foreboding ill in sullen bitterness,
In death's dour hand will i have written then
How words may smite when thoughts all bite amain,
The sore body made more akin to corpse
With loathsome stench amidst unlatched decay
A prayer austere will i have woven then
What long has lacked the strength of voice now rears,
In spelling out makes secret poison stir
A deathly strain, in coarse rags through it slumber,
Bedecked with loam, grim fate metes out afresh
So fierce a beast the cry appears anon,
With wings outspread frail hope is wont to batter
It may so be the tomb is far too precious: invitingly, its charms their hold bid tighten...
In silence stern will i have penned it then,
A brooding prayer composed of sacred woe
Ere soul is risen to the folds of black
And on my doorstep death vouchsafes to tread
I will have written to you of the black, surreptitiously, nay, maliciously...
