Black Mrs. Behemoth

In a room of the palace

Black Mrs Behemoth

Gave way to wroth

And the wildest malice.

Cried Mrs Behemoth,

"Come, come,

Come, court lady,

Doomed like a moth,

Through palace rooms shady!"

The candle flame

Seemed a yellow pompion,

Sharp as a scorpion,

Nobody came...

Only a bugbear,

Air unkind,

That bud-furred papoose,

The young spring wind,

Blew out the candle.

Where is it gone?

To flat Coromandel

Rolling on!