GHOST RADDLED.

“Come, surly fellow, come! A song!”

What, madmen? Sing to you?

Choose from the clouded tales of wrong

And terror I bring to you.

Of a night so torn with cries,

Honest men sleeping

Start awake with glaring eyes,

Bone-chilled, flesh creeping.

Of spirits in the web hung room

Up above the stable,

Groans, knockings in the gloom,

The dancing table.

Of demons in the dry well

That cheep and mutter,

Clanging of an unseen bell,

Blood choking the gutter.

Of lust frightful, past belief,

Lurking unforgotten,

Unrestrainable endless grief

From breasts long rotten.

A song? What laughter or what song

Can this house remember?

Do flowers and butterflies belong

To a blind December?