Weave the warp, and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward's race. Give ample room, and verge enough The characters of hell to trace.
Night, with all her negro train, Took possession of the plain; In an hearse she rode reclined, Drawn by screech-owls slow and blind: Close to her, with printless feet, Crept Stillness, in a winding sheet.
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