The stars, the stars are much maligned And hidden from the day At night a darkling fiend Upon our sleeping village preys It looms in From neighb'ring wood From thickets wan and grey And from the first We've known not rest A single day
At night, at night, a crimson light Within the manor home It grows inside with naught to hide And takes on ghastly form As pale as death, its face a mask Of terrors dreamed in flame Valet and maid, they would not stay The lord has flown away He's flown away
Oh, one by one Its menace spun Throughout this shadow bower Here I remain, though rent in twain Alone in my last hour The Weird, the Weird of Finistere Now here within my home I fell its stare And meet its glare Its shadow my own
