The moon sends down his silver rays,

adrift amidst the dark.

Beneath his implacable eye,

the seelie dance, the witches fly,

the creatures of the night world cry,

the cricket’s sistrum plays.

And through the night so heavy, dark,

the magi contemplates.

The hour of Will be coming nigh,

he calls out loud, “shaddai el chai”

and from him every fiend dost fly.

The pale-faced angel stays.