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?