Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame
Of midnight fire burns; mysterious woman
That never is called---when the gigantic womb
Of Stygian darkness vomits forth her thickest gloom,
And makes one vast inkblot of all the air
Pause for a moment in your cloudy ebony chair
In which you ride with Hecate, and favor
Us your dedicated worshipers,
Even to the very end,
Before the tattling eastern spy,
The glow of morning on the eastern horizon,
Divulge to the Sun our secret ceremony.
Come, join hands, and beat the ground,
In an airy fantastic round.