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.

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?

My people too were scared with eerie sounds,
A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls.
A read more

My people too were scared with eerie sounds,
A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls.
A noise of falling weights that never fell,
Weird whispers, bells that rang without a hand,
Door-handles turn'd when none was at the door,
And bolted doors that open'd of themselves;
And one betwixt the dark and light had seen
Her, bending by the cradle of her babe.

A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
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A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,
The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead
Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets;
As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,
Disasters in the sun; and the moist star
Upon whose influence Neptune's empire stands
Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,
And airy tongues that syllable men's names.

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow,
And Scipio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us!

Great Pompey's shade complains that we are slow,
And Scipio's ghost walks unavenged amongst us!

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.

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.

Thin, airy shoals of visionary ghosts.

Thin, airy shoals of visionary ghosts.