Yonder rises the moon—
Watch it climb higher;
And the forest nymphs
Climb up to their highest towers;
The wolves quietly shed their shadows,
When the moon silently takes her throne.
The wind starts to sing
A wicked hymn;
Blowing up from the forest floors,
Caressing ripples over quiet lakes,
Conversing with winged mists,
And cackling in the fallen leaves.
It's witching hour now—
Hark the wolves howling;
The shadows have quit their hideaways,
And taken over all and everything.
A strange humming issues forth;
Your ears catch every quiver
Of every dried leaf,
And every squirrel in every tree.
Fear not the clawing branches;
Scratching at your window pane,
They're only here as audience,
Silent as your screaming pain.
Tis a night when every pen
Will bleed onto white pages;
Tis an hour when every fear comes alive
By hushed moonlight;
And the hymns of witches.