The Ghosts and Ghouls, like phantoms rend their graves.
Called by Death for Jubilee from dark doom,
From worthy kings down to the foulest knaves.
Clean snow contrasts the deep and tattered gloom.
Rarest blossoms litter the dancing hall,
‘Neath twisted copse the Macabre goes around;
Persephone, Death’s Lady curtsies all,
Death plays his fiddle with a shrieking sound.
Twirling spirits swoop in rapturous glee;
Intent to find the freedom of the night.
The dawning sounds to end the strange melee.
Tall apparitions scatter in their fright,
To their numerous graves church bells do send.
The dance of Macabre has come to an end…