Robert Graves

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?”

The Owl, 1919

#RhymedStanza

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