During the plague I came into my own. 
It was a time of smoke-pots in the house 
Against infection. The blind head of bone 
                              Grinned its abuse 

Like a good democrat at everyone. 
Runes were recited daily, charms were applied. 
That was the time I came into my own. 
                              Half Europe died. 

The symptoms are a fever and dark spots 
First on the hands, then on the face and neck, 
But even before the body, the mind rots. 
                              You can be sick 

Only a day with it before you’re dead. 
But the most curious part of it is the dance. 
The victim goes, in short, out of his head. 
                              A sort of trance 

Glazes the eyes, and then the muscles take 
His will away from him, the legs begin 
Their funeral jig, the arms and belly shake 
                              Like souls in sin. 

Some, caught in these convulsions, have been known 
To fall from windows, fracturing the spine. 
Others have drowned in streams. The smooth head-stone, 
                              The box of pine,

Are not for the likes of these. Moreover, flame 
Is powerless against contagion. 
That was the black winter when I came 
                              Into my own.