Riding through the Air she comes
Lur'd with the smell of infant blood, to dance
With Lapland Witches, while the labouring Moon
Eclipses at their charmes."

Our crimson quickening, whispering through their veins
Like the funeral winds whisper through the leaves.
We will hunt them for eternity, our jewels come forth of their fear
And we drink their spirits like wine, celebrating their misery.
...Every night we die in a passionate melancholy...