The Dark Pool

It lies beneath a sunless sky, Deep in the entrails of a bog; Gnarled willows hide it, lifting high Their tortured arms; and never frog, Nor newt, nor toad, nor dragonfly Dare come within its deadly fog.

For evil spirits there are bound Within its slime: an impious rune They chant, nor is there other sound But wicked whispers, out of tune, As un-dead things that there lie drowned Obscenely mutter to the moon.

The nightshade petals in its dank And fetid vapors darkly bloom; Black orchids on its silent bank Insinuate a sick perfume; And from its depths ooze up the rank And gassy stenches of the tomb.

For potencies of witchcraft fell Are buried in its slimy bed, And deathly blasphemies that well And bubble up with grisly dread. From things that in its waters dwell— From things that died, but are not dead.