The rising wind bewails the night;
                             The air hangs in shrouds
                             That further blacken
                             Whatever hope or light there was.
                             From the realms of dark
                             And twisted worlds,
                             The hell-charred souls take flight
                             Across a tortured sky.
 
                             Almost obscured by the darkness
                             A figure walks alone,
                             Head bent,
                             Heedless
                             Of all the ghastly things about.
 
                             The wind becomes a groan, and then
                             A shriek--
                             Shadows deepen, as if the blackness
                             Were not already an all-consuming beast.
                             And just before the figure goes
                             Forever into darkness,
                             An eerie sound, a sob
                             Not torn from human host--
                             Or was it just
                             The undead's
                             Mindless laugh?