If you go fishing by morning light,
there are trinkets and jewels upon the lakeside.
Beside the lake, the flowers won’t bloom;
there are those that say it is the tomb
of ladies unwedded whose spirits now loom,
and dance and sing by starry night.
But ‘tis not a melodic, tranquil tune,
but a bestial cacophony under honeyed moon;
their tongues replaced with silver spoons,
around their fingers, a daisy tied;
their clothes a pallid, ghostly white.