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.
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A mote it is to trouble the mind's eye.
In the most high and palmy state of Rome,
read more
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.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
I can call spirits from the vasty deep.
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she.
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she.
I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That even read more
I look for ghosts; but none will force
Their way to me; 'tis falsely said
That even there was intercourse
Between the living and the dead.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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!
