When the twilight foretells of darkness,
Then shall the candle burn
And I await the spirit of magic
With the hope it will return.
I hearken closely unto the silence
And thereof the voice within,
For the spirit speaks unto me
And tasks upon my pen.
When the bewitching hour is chiming
I yet dwell in the candlelight,
For the shadows have lured me to a world
That only thrives at night;
And so I hearken unto the silence,
Tho’ it be colder than the grave,
Yet the spirit there comforts me
And provides me line and stave.
When this my room be deathly dark
My candle comes alight
And I toil silently nigh the shadowy form
That only comes at night;
For when the silence encroaches upon me
And thus the voice within,
The spirit relates to me the mystical words
That move my lyrical pen.