Wednesday, October 13, 2010

The Haunted House


by Thomas Hood

Unhinged, the iron gates half-open hung,

Jarred by the gusty gales of many winters,

That from its crumbled pedestal had flung

One marble globe in splinters.

The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball,

Touched by some impulse, occult or mechanic;

And nameless beetles ran along the wall

In universal panic.

The subtle spider, that from overhead

Hung like a spy on human guilt and error

Suddenly turn'd, and up it's slender thread

Ran with a nimble terror.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear;

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted;

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,

The place is haunted.


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