Outside in the dark night flying,
Tattered wings on ǽther gliding,
O'er a bleak land and ocean sighing,
A wretched shape draws ever near.
In between the pools of light darting,
Past dead leaves and grass advancing,
At my windowsill now scratching,
Looking through the glass too clear.
Peals of twelve in the air, hanging,
Each heavy as stones, dropping,
Father Time himself is slowing,
Drawing out like the edge of a knife.
Through time's bog I wander.
To a time forever before forever,
When I did not know such terror,
That creature scratching at my life.
Once, I think I do remember,
'Neath the sky of red September,
Embers of ambition I did tender,
Long before the setting of the sun.
Skies that now are dark were beaming,
Gold and azure, splendid seeming,
Life in all the world was teaming,
But by despair it was all undone.
A minute before the hour of witching,
Brings the dread of only half knowing,
Breath is hitching, dimly rushing,
Toward the time of my death.
And the sailor here is regretting,
As he sees his own pyre burning,
Out to sea he's helplessly drifting,
On the pages of cruel Macbeth.
One last look at those eyes, glowing,
That vulture at my soul is gnawing,
Living and alone I'm sobbing,
Underneath this rain so dry.
The arms of the clock are grating,
An arm from Carcossa is reaching,
A final oblivion is waiting,
Forever on my soul to lie.