What soul is this, good source upon a lake?
That stands uplifting by the boats, a form,
A shape most deadly and resolute, rake’d,
Lifting naked, itself, its own soft worm,
Guided by the moon’s harsh light and temper,
Which, walking by mood and hellish fate, this–
Apparition–comes, like fiendish leper,
A stark deadly contrast truer, listless,
Like the boned and marrowed corpse that
Lacking spirit, glows a new soul, a fire
Not of the living circle, see, but what
Only torn flesh can be–see it fast tires!
What sight is this among the tawny boats?
That tears and bites the air with screaming throat?