A tight mass of great prowess, it rolled off the sea
And upon the land encroached.
A giant ghost-head’s breath be,
Engulfing all who approached.
Stifling silence adorned the earth,
A shield from heaven’s blessed spears arched over like a dome.
Immortal, omnipotent; domineering all mundane mirth.
Shackles of dread confined all inside home.
All but one, who was called Lenore.
On her porch she sat and revived old tales
Of the mist, told by her mother no more.
It looms everywhere—the oceans, the hills, the vales;
It breathes life into your uncouth dream,
Carves and reshapes your darkest terror;
It sucks in all when for help you scream.
But what lured Lenore was truth and no error.
The mist brings back the souls of the dead.
She couldn’t fathom, her heart so bereft of vice,
The depth of the pit where she did head.
“Its love. Just love. No vain or mice.”
All hushed and quiet, she sat alone tight.
Waiting, breathing, longing and hoping.
And there! She comes from the lane on the right!
She had Lenore’s gaze like a ranger roping.
She glided, her smile like beacon in the haze.
Oh, yes. She glided as if of mist she was made!
Towards her figure, little Lenore trotted in daze,
Towards the shadowy visitor without difficulty she did wade.
“Mother.” Blissfully she wrapped her arms around.
The little girl was never alone; scared was the village to the core.
By her mother’s grave, she forgot her body on the ground,
The little girl they called Lenore.