But in the procession's middle
Loomed three figures, just like beauty's
Clover - I will ne'er forget these
Lovely images of woman.

One I recognized, from just the
Half-moon on her head; so proud, so
Pure, just like a Roman statue,
Rode along the mighty goddess.

With her tunic bunched around her,
Breast and hips were half uncovered,
Torchlight, moonlight both were playing
Lewdly on her lustrous limbs.

And her visage, white, like marble,
And like marble, cold. Appalling
Were the stiffness and the pallor
Of this strict and noble mien.

Yet, in her intense black eyes, there
Blazed a harrowing and ghastly
And uncannily sweet fire,
Soul-bedazzling and consuming.

How transformed is this Diana,
Who, in wanton chastity, did
Make a deer of Actaeon°, and
Give him to the hounds for supper!

Does she now atone for sinning,
With these chivalrous companions?
Like a poor and spectral worldling,
Through the air she travels nightly.

Maybe late, but all the stronger
Is the lust awakened in her,
And it burns within her eyes, just
Like a hellish conflagration.

She regrets the bygone era,
When the men were more attractive,
And the quantity today perhaps can
Compensate for quality.

Next to her there rides a beauty,
One whose visage lacks the strict and
Chiseled features of the Greeks, and yet she
Beams with grace, of Celtic origin.

This one was the sprite, Habondia,°
Easily I recognized her
From the sweetness of her smiling,
And her lusty, hearty laughter!

Hers a face, both hale and rosy,
Painted as by Master Greuze,°
Heart-shaped mouth that's always open,
And her teeth so white, enchanting.

Wore a fluttering blue night-dress,
That the wind would fain be airing -
Never in my best of dreams did
I see such a set of shoulders!

I came very close to jumping
Out the window, just to kiss her!
This had come out rather badly,
For my neck I'd surely broken.

Oh! if she had only laughed,
When I fell into the chasm,
Bleeding at her feet down yonder -
Oh! I know this sort of laughter!

And the third of these three women,
That did move my heart so deeply,
Was she too a lady-devil,
Like the other female figures?

Be she devil, or an angel,
I don't know. Just so with women,
One's not certain where the angel
Stops, and where begins the devil.

There upon her fevered visage
Lay the oriental magic,
And the precious clothes reminded
Of Scheherazade's old stories.°

Soft lips, red like pomegranates,
Little curvéd nose like lilies,
And her limbs, so cool and slender,
Like the palms of an oasis.

She reclined upon a palfrey,
Tall and white, and whose gold bridle
Was conducted by two Moors,
Trotting there beside the princess.

Yes, she really was a princess,
Was the queen of all Judea,
And the lovely wife of Herod,
Who the baptist's head did covet.°

For this blood-guilt must she also
Be accursed; she must, as Night-Spook,
'Til the very Day of Judgement,
Ride along with this Wild Hunt.

In her hands she bears forever
That sad platter, with the head of
John the Baptist, which she kisses;
Yes, she'll kiss the head with fervor.

For, at one time, she loved John -
It's not found within the Bible,
Yet the people keep the saga
Of Herodias' bloody loving -

Otherwise, 'twere no explaining
The attraction of that lady -
Would a woman crave the head of
Someone, if she does not love him?

She was just a little huffy,
Having her Beloved beheaded;
But when she, upon the platter,
Caught the sight of that dear head,

Then she wept and lost her reason,
And she died of love's dementia,
(Love's dementia! Pleonasm!
Love's already a dementia!)

Nightly back to life, she carries,
Like I said, the bloody head
In her hand, on hunting journeys -
But, with feminine caprices,

Catapults the head up through the
Nighttime air, with childish laughter,
Then, with great agility, she
Catches it, just like a play-ball.

As she rode on past, she looked me
Over well, and then she nodded
So coquettishly, yet pining,
That my deepest heart was quaking.

Three times, surging up and down,
Traveled the procession, and in
Three times passing I was greeted
By the lovely, charming phantom.

As the whole parade had faded,
And the turmoil died away, it
Still was blazing in my mem'ry,
Evermore, that lovely greeting.

And throughout the night, my weary
Limbs were always tossing, turning,
On the straw - (for feather beds were
Absent from Uraka's dwelling) -

And I thought: what does it mean, that
She mysteriously nodded?
Why hast thou regarded me so
Tenderly, Herodias?