The Day And The Hour Are Hers...

On a day very still, very cold, very pale,
I see the shadows gather up her shape
In the frost-bitten garden where she paces, alone,
Her long black tresses stirring in the ghost of a breeze
As she wraps a cloak of midnight velvet
About her tall and slender frame,
Her bare feet crushing the snow!
She laughs at the cold, her eyes glittering
As she casts a spell of enchantment weird
Over her beloved town--
Upon each roof-top,
Imps and bogles dance, picking their noses
And smearing the results on the frostéd window-panes
Whilst a herd of screaming phookas galumph madly
Up and down the twilit streets
As ghosts and vampires rise solemnly from ancient tombs
To attend her Birthday Revels...