Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come when you do call for them?

Why, so can I, or so can any man;
But will they come when you do call for them?

The unexpected disappearance of Mr. Canning from the scene,
followed by the transient and embarrassed phantom of Lord
read more

The unexpected disappearance of Mr. Canning from the scene,
followed by the transient and embarrassed phantom of Lord
Goderich.

All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear,
All intellect, all sense, and as they please
read more

All heart they live, all head, all eye, all ear,
All intellect, all sense, and as they please
They limb themselves, and colour, shape, or size,
Assume, as likes them best, condense or rare.

Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!
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Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee!
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

Whence and what are thou, execrable shape?

Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at read more

Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
O'er some new-open'd grave; and, (strange to tell!)
Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

What are these,
So withered and so wild in their attire
That took not like th' inhabitants read more

What are these,
So withered and so wild in their attire
That took not like th' inhabitants o' th' earth
And yet are on't?

Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth read more

Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide.