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.