In Thessaly

In thessaly by  Clark Ashton Smith

When I lay dead in Thessaly,

The land was rife with sorcery:

Fair witches howled to Hecate,

Pouring the blood of rams by night

With many a necromantic rite

To draw me back for their delight....

But I lay dead in Thessaly

With ah my lust and wizardry:

Somewhere the Golden Ass went by

To munch the rose and find again

The shape and manlihead of men:

But in my grave I stirred not then,

And the black lote in Thessaly

Its juices dripped unceasingly

Above the rotting mouth of me;

And Worm and mould and graveyard must

And roots of cypress, darkly thrust,

Transformed the dead to utter dust.