THEY say that poison-sprinkled flowers 
    Are sweeter in perfume 
Than when, untouched by deadly dew, 
    They glowed in early bloom.
They say that men condemned to die 
    Have quaffed the sweetened wine 
With higher relish than the juice 
    Of the untampered vine.
 
They say that in the witch’s song, 
    Though rude and harsh it be, 
There blends a wild, mysterious strain 
    Of weirdest melody.
 
And I believe the devil’s voice 
    Sinks deeper in our ear 
Than any whisper sent from Heaven, 
    However sweet and clear.
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