By avenues vague and secret,
visited by devils and regret,
whither the Wraith of Manes
stands firm and tall and reigns,
thither in the dark acres stead;
and like a vapor inside my head,
lingers there to haunt and spread.

Abysmal troughs and a great deluge,
and rifts, and dens, and silva's huge,
with silhouette's none can recover
for the weeps that pour all over;
ridges plunging into Nevermore,
into waters devoid of any shore;
swells that spasmodically aspire,
upsurging in welkins full of fire.

For in my soul regrets are legion,
but it's an irenic and placid region-
because the wraith which did haunt,
is now seen as wispy, thin, and gaunt.
I wend my way straight through him,
and I refuse to ever again view him.
The Wraith of Manes is now banished,
from terrible dreams, now vanished.