Just like this, a flock of ravens
Noiselessly, with black wings flying,
Sweeps across a snow decked country.
Without rustle was his footstep
And his body . . . without shadows.
Ere in fright the old grand-master
Reached down for his scapulary,
Quietly sat at the table
Dreadful quest of this late hour,
Took a goblet off the table,
Filled it with a wine of crimson
And then spoke, voice softly gliding
As a snake through grass is creeping,
As a rustling wind that whispers
O'er a lone tomb's withered garland:
"Long the night, what say, my brother,
Raise your cup, let's drink together!
Long the night and endless, endless
As the sea of human sorrows."
Gazing with a lifeless vision,
Prelate raised his sparkling goblet,
Drank . . . and thought while thus imbibing
That he swallowed burning fires.
Satan crossed his legs before him
And then fixed his piercing gazes
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