| The nightmare will toss Its cold black mane And gallop on ebony hoofs From your pillow, away As far as the Moon, if you say: Thou evil thing Of darkness born, Of tail and wing And snout and horn, Fly from me From now till morn. Then think of the fire That burns by day: Sun in his glistening chariot, Drawn by foam-white Stallions, out of the sea. |
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| Against Evil Dreams |