text:  Pale at its ghastly noon Pauses above the death-still wood--the moon; The night-sprite sighing through the dim air stirs; The clouds descend in rain; Mourning the wan stars wane Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres! Haggard as spectres--vision-like and dumb Dark with the pomp of Death and moving slow Towards that sad lair the pale Procession come Where the Grave closes on the Night below