It started when the raven came—
I know that much is true.
I woke and soon became aware
Upon the fog and moonlit glare
That mote of midnight standing there
Then toward the trees he flew.
Through wild forests and the moors
He beckoned me beyond.
Past every road and forest trail
Obscured in Nyx’s gloomy veil
Until we found, across the dale
A cottage by a pond.
The raven turned to speak to me
Before we reached the door.
“I live here with my wife,” he said.
“You see our graveyard there ahead?
I’m sexton to the helpless dead
But come inside—you’ll find a bed
And maybe something more.”
When crossing through the entranceway,
A coldness stilled my veins.
A bitter pall engulfed the place—
A shocking, self-posessed embrace
I feel it now, about my face—
The memory remains.
A table housed a candle near
The middle of the room.
I saw from duller light within
A coffin where a door had been;
Its cover opened, letting in
A woman through the gloom.
Pure snow the color of her gowns—
A scintillating white.
Her face as brilliant as her clothes,
Her hair the sooted black of crows
But none had eyes as blue as those!
By gazing into them, I froze
In flickered candlelight.
As if encouraged by her eyes,
Fatigue set in at last.
“I hesitate to ask,” I said,
“You mentioned that you have a bed
Or other place to rest my head?
My eyes are fading fast.”
“Feel welcome here,” the woman said,
Her voice a raspy drone.
“What’s asked of me is yours to keep,
And here, of course you’re free to sleep,
But if you choose to tumble deep,
Your ruin is your own.”
I felt the tenor of her voice
And recognized my host.
“That’s right,” she whispered in my mind.
“This valley’s where I’ve been confined:
Where Adam left his bride behind
And you’re the first of his to find
That Lilith is no ghost.”
And then she held the candle up,
Her raven looking on.
She brought the flame just past her lips
A quickened blow, then candle-drips,
A dying wick, a cold eclipse,
And all I knew was gone.
A verse adaptation of “Lilith” by George MacDonald
The Lay of the Last Light