I took the road to Owens’ Mill one eve,
When growing dusk its eerie shadows throws,
Where thoughts of ashy phantoms there will weave
Fantastic specters on the icy snows.
My horse, as well, seemed scarcely now immune
To fear without a name, unknown, unheard.
We stopped to watch the rising of the Moon,
Above the headstones of those long interred.
And in that silence, there the ruined mill
Loomed to our right as grim as mythic Dis.
Its empty windows sent a psychic chill
Like frozen lips from some vampiric kiss.
Against the Moon its walls were limned, askew,
And beckoned me sweet sadness to distil
And sing laments and long lost lovers sue,
There in the Moon, the night so deathly still.