Since the Devil has come up (not that I believe in him, either), I’ll repost this from the previous thread:

Nocturne

Round and round the shutter’d Square
I strolled with the Devil’s arm in mine.
No sound but the scrape of his hoofs was there
And the ring of his laughter and mine.
We had drunk black wine.

I scream’d, “I will race you, Master!”
“What matter,” he shriek’d, “to-night
Which of us runs the faster?
There is nothing to fear to-night
In the foul moon’s light!”

Then I look’d him in the eyes
And I laugh’d full shrill at the lie he told
And the gnawing fear he would fain disguise.
It was true, what I’d time and again been told:
He was old — old.

-From “Enoch Soames”, by Max Beerbohm*

Creepy, eh?

(*BTW, Max Beerbohm is not to be confused with that fin de siecle collegiate drinking apparatus pioneer, Max Beerbong.)