Childe Rowlands to his Dark Hour Came

I started from the mad cackle

Of his laugh, as one

Reaching to grasp a friend

By hand should of a sudden stop an gasp,

To find the once familiar face transform’d and rend

Into a Devil’s mask.

While all about me seemed

To notice not one whit.

And yet the very earth did teem

Beneath me.  The horror of the pit

Blew its foul air across my face and steam

From out of it

Obscured my eyes; and staggered thus

To feel his hideous eyes

Seek out from mine in dark disgust

And shame, the wild surmise

That all this horror standing there was just
Myself caught by surprise.