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?”