Aye, and still my sorrows rampant run --
The daemons haunt my dreams and shadows from my heart
The unused thing--
Well then? Consider yourself a daemon-slayer;
So I should, would that I could, but I can not.
How so, fair? Fine appearence always breathing gives
To beasts within that should ravage the heart and soul? The shrift
Not true, miss.
Ay, but I am plagued by calls of midnight-birds
With cackle-tunes and haunting words;
Daemons surely, right astride my windowpane;
The midnight-birds keep not the sane.
Still though, bastard birds
Which thier lineage not know,
Can sing a song and dance;
But have you ever seen a man, by such a song entranced?
The daemons you consider are surely not your troubles true,
Open to me--do you not trust yourself? I'll take a shrift from you.
Ay, miss, but still the whispers of dawn cling to my robes
And see the av'ans go,
And by the ways their wings flaps
They'll be back next night, I know.
You know not what you speak of fair,
You seek a thing in shadows bare:
But found in only daylight here.
Ay, miss, prehaps so:
But found or not it haunts me still
It ever has and ever will.
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