Said the raven to the willow tree, “Hark! “The souls rise now from their burnt graves!” As the blackened corpses let themselves free, The willow tree groaned, there it stayed. “The sun has forsaken this desolate land,” Lamented the raven, from the darkness of his heart, “And yet still here you stand, Flee shall I, before we are torn apart.” So the raven gave his departure Into the scorching sky. The tree moved not from this bleak picture, As the souls let out a cry, “The flames of Hell, they come to you To destroy your precious soul. "Stand, if you will, but when we are through Your beautiful leaves will turn black as coal.” Though the flames licked at him, The willow tree moved not. As the light faded and dimmed, Not a single movement was caught. The souls of the dead saw this now And their hearts were filled with life, Death stared and wondered how As the masquerade was pierced with a knife.