This strange, gaunt spectre nothing wears at all
Save, on his head, a crown of Carnival,
Grotesquely perched upon his naked skull.
Without or whip or spur (its nostrils full
Of dribbling foam) he urges on its course
His ghastly, grim, Apocalyptic horse,
And horse and rider, through a space as wide
As is Infinity, tumultuous ride.

And while his mount treads down a nameless horde.
The spectral rider shakes his flaming sword
Over the mighty, royal realm that is
His broad estate—one vast necropolis,
Where sleep, beneath the cold sun’s joyless eye,
All the inhabitants of History.

Translated by James Laver