If, on a night of laden black,
Some Christian, out of charity,
Buries your vaunted corpse out back
Behind where some shack used to be,

When the chaste stars begin to let
Their laden eyelids down for dawn,
The spider there will weave his net
And there the viper nest his spawn

And over your damned head you’ll hear
Throughout the stint of every year
The piteous wails of wolves, the screams

Of witches starved beyond your ken,
Frolics of lecherous old men
And black pickpockets' cackling schemes.