The Medusa of the Skies

Like a worm-fretted visage from the tomb, The moon unswathes her hollow, shrunken head, Launching such light as foulders on the dead From pallid skies more death-like than the gloom. Under her beams the breasted lands assume Dead hues, and charnel shapes unceremented; And shadows that towering sepulchers might shed Move livid as the shadows on dials of doom.

On hills like tumuli, and waters mute, A whiteness steals as of a world made still When reptant Death at last rears absolute— An earth now frozen by malefice of eyes Aeonian dooms and realm-deep rigors fill— The gaze of that Medusa of the skies.