THE CUP OF COJMUS



              PROEM

TIHE Nights of sOlg and story,
    T Witlh breath of frost and rain,
Whose locks are wild and hoary,
Whose fingers tap the pane
Witth leaves, are come again.

The Nights of ol0( October,
That laig the hearth and tell,
To child and grandsire sober,
Tales of what long befell
Of witch and warlock spell.

Nights. that, like gnome and faery,
Go, lost in mist and moon,
And speak in legendary
Thoulghts or a mystic rune,
Mfuch like the owlet's croon.

Or whirling on like witches,
Amid the brush and broom,
Call from t-he Earth its riches,
Of leaves and wild perfume,
And strew them through the gloom.

Till death, in all his starkness,
Assumes a form of fear,
And somewhere in the darkness
Seems slowly drawing near
In raiment torn and sere.
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