In an ancient, haunted wood did Hamlet stride, 'neath waning moon, His heart as chill as frosty winds of March, whose breath did swoon. From elders' whispers, tales of wraiths long past, now restless roam, Lurking in shadows, weaving omens in a cryptic tome. As night did wear its velvet cloak adorned, a spectral gust did stir. Hark! Hollow moans of yore did echo, phantom choristers to shudder spur. 'Twas Gertrude's mournful visage, wrapped in ethereal revel, longing staid, Seeking solace from Hamlet's soul, in shadows dismayed. The air grew dense with whispered dirges, spirits' mournful plea, Until dawn's gilded spears smote night, and specters ceased to be. Yet Hamlet, marked with fear's cold kiss, vowed return to view, To unweave the mysteries of night in woods anew.