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, knocking 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?”

Copyright Credit: from The Owl, 1919