Transcriber's Note: This e-text was produced from Weird Tales, August-September, 1936. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. 

 

 By C. A. BUTZ 

 

 The lights that wink across the sodden moor 

 Like phosphorescent eyes that beckon men 

 To risk fell footsteps in the treacherous fen, 

 And sink in loathsome muck, without a spoor— 

 What ghosts of former days, what dread allure, 

 Abides within this subterranean den? 

 Or, reaching out, snares victims to its ken, 

 With wraith-like fingers, to a peril sure? 

 'Tis told that evil things lurk out of sight 

 With human bones that fester in the ooze; 

 Belike 'tis true, these bones that once were clothed 

 In fleshly form now harbor deadly spite 

 Against the living, and this swamp still brews 

 Within its bubbling depths the curse men loathed 

 Before they turned to leprous Things of Night!