The night is darkening round me The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me And I cannot, cannot go.
My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set. Such was the fate of Adam Brand a strange, unearthly fate; For stronger than death or hempen noose are the fires of a dead man's hate. They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream To have seen those dead men rise. When you think of poetry, what comes to mind? (I think I made you up inside my head.). To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies;Across him fell John Farrel's corpse, nor ever the twain did rise.There was no wound on Adam Brand but his brow was cold and damp,For the fear of death had blown out his life as a witch blows out a lamp. "Ho neighbors all," spake Adam Brand "see ye John Farrel's fate!
Double, double, toil and trouble; Fire burn, and cauldron bubble. William Shakespeare: The Witches’ Spell from "Macbeth" (1606) William Shakespeare (1564–1616) wrote nearly 40 plays, including this one about an ambitious Scottish nobleman. The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep A night seems termless hell.
There are poems about ghosts and witches, spirits and spectres, dead men coming back to avenge themselves upon the living, and numerous other nefarious and creepy scenarios. We are friends of him whom you hold within And we fain would take him away, From those who ride fast on our heels With mind to do him wrong; They have no care for his innocence And the rope they bear is long.". I live in a house with no windowsa black curtain hangs on my door.The voices of conscience torment meI live in a room with no floor. All was foretold me; naught Could I foresee; But I learnt how the wind would sound After these things should be. I vowed that you should have my hand But fate gives us denial; You'll find it there, at Dr. Bell's, In spirits and a phial. Never the least stir made the listeners Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup And the sound of iron on stone And how the silence surged softly backward When the plunging hoofs were gone. The stars go waltzing out in blue and red,And arbitrary blackness gallops in:I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place, your sight can knock on, echoing; but here, within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze, just as a raving madman, when nothing else, can ease him, charges into his dark night, howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels, silken sleeve, from moonlit rafters bright. This is not that poetry. "Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes. Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark The wind was high and the clouds were dark And the boat return'd no more. The Hag is astride This night for to ride; The Devill and shee together: Through thick, and through thin Now out, and then in Though ne'r so foule be the weather. Men fled before the flying twain or shrank with bated breath,And they saw on the face of Adam Brand the seal set there by death.He reeled on buckling legs that failed, yet on and on he fled;So through the shuddering market-place, the dying fled the dead. Most people associate it with love, romance, and heartache, but poetry actually has a long and rich history of being, well, spooky. They stole little Bridget For seven years long; When she came down again Her friends were all gone.
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