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A collection of 31 spooky poems to add an extra chill to ghost storytelling nights such as Christmas and Halloween. The winter-death: upon the bed of sate.
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Sir Arthur Conan Doyle gave the world Sherlock Holmes but also had the ability to deliver weird and wonderful tales as far removed from the Baker Street boys as you could wish to be. They are called tales of unease after all. Dahl read more than supernatural tales before selecting 14 for publication.

Prepare to be spooked. This ghostly offering from the genius mind of Charles Dickens was published in and is the fifth and final of his Christmas novellas. Redlaw, a chemistry professor, is the central character but is never referred to by a first name. He cannot let go of the past and perceived wrongs gnaw away at him. Bitterness overtakes Redlaw and it spreads to those he comes into contact with, except for Milly Swidger.

She presents the climactic moral to the tale. The king of the short story and the master of the macabre, this is a marvellous addition to any library of the unnerving. Four elderly men in a small New York town have taken to telling each other ghost stories — influenced by the death of a former fifth member of the group, who died in an upstairs bedroom during one of their gatherings with a look of horror on his face.

It was published for the first time in It is a ghost story, an adventure, a romance and a morality tale all wrapped up in one. Did you know… an age-old Scandinavian belief is that ancestors might visit to enjoy a feast while the household sleeps on Christmas Eve? A welcoming light might be left on, plenty of food and drink placed on the table and a clean white cloth draped over a chair before retiring to bed. Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane o' the brig; There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross.

But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake!

For Nannie, far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle - Ae spring brought off her master hale, But left behind her ain gray tail; The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. No, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son take heed; Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think! This truth finds honest Tam o' Shanter, As he from Ayr one night did canter; Old Ayr, which never a town surpasses, For honest men and bonny lasses.

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She told you well you were a waster, A rambling, blustering, drunken boaster, That from November until October, Each market day you were not sober; During each milling period with the miller, You sat as long as you had money, For every horse he put a shoe on, The blacksmith and you got roaring drunk on; That at the Lords House, even on Sunday, You drank with Kirkton Jean till Monday.

Ah, gentle ladies, it makes me cry, To think how many counsels sweet, How much long and wise advice The husband from the wife despises!


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But to our tale :- One market night, Tam was seated just right, Next to a fireplace, blazing finely, With creamy ales, that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Cobbler Johnny, His ancient, trusted, thirsty crony; Tom loved him like a very brother, They had been drunk for weeks together. Care, mad to see a man so happy, Even drowned himself in ale.

Spooky Poems For Halloween

As bees fly home with loads of treasure, The minutes winged their way with pleasure: Kings may be blessed, but Tam was glorious, Over all the ills of life victorious. The wind blew as if it had blown its last; The rattling showers rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallowed, Loud, deep and long the thunder bellowed: That night, a child might understand, The Devil had business on his hand. Well mounted on his grey mare, Meg. Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!

But Maggie stood, right sore astonished, Till, by the heel and hand admonished, She ventured forward on the light; And, vow! Tom saw an incredible sight! Warlocks and witches in a dance: No cotillion, brand new from France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, Put life and mettle in their heels. In a window alcove in the east, There sat Old Nick, in shape of beast; A shaggy dog, black, grim, and large, To give them music was his charge: He screwed the pipes and made them squeal, Till roof and rafters all did ring.

As Thomas glowered, amazed, and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious; The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew, They reeled, they set, they crossed, they linked, Till every witch sweated and smelled, And cast her ragged clothes to the floor, And danced deftly at it in her underskirts! Their underskirts, instead of greasy flannel, Been snow-white seventeen hundred linen! But Tam knew what was what well enough: There was one winsome, jolly wench, That night enlisted in the core, Long after known on Carrick shore For many a beast to dead she shot, And perished many a bonnie boat, And shook both much corn and barley, And kept the country-side in fear.

Ah, Tom! You will get what's coming! In hell they will roast you like a herring! In vain your Kate awaits your coming! Away to the Dismal Swamp he speeds - His path was rugged and sore Through tangled juniper, beds of reeds Through many a fen where the serpent feeds And man never trod before.

And when on the earth he sunk to sleep If slumber his eyelids knew He lay where the deadly vine doth weep Its venomous tear and nightly steep The flesh with blistering dew! And near him the she-wolf stirr'd the brake And the copper-snake breath'd in his ear Till he starting cried, from his dream awake "Oh! He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd - "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light! Till he hollow'd a boat of the birchen bark Which carried him off from shore; Far, far he follow'd the meteor spark The wind was high and the clouds were dark And the boat return'd no more.

But oft, from the Indian hunter's camp This lover and maid so true Are seen at the hour of midnight damp To cross the Lake by a fire-fly lamp And paddle their white canoe! Suddenly night crushed out the day and hurled Her remnants over cloud-peaks, thunder-walled. Then fell a stillness such as harks appalled When far-gone dead return upon the world.

31 Spooky Halloween Poems - Creepy And Dark Ghost Poetry.

There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke. Each one whom Life exiled I named and called. But they were all too far, or dumbed, or thralled And never one fared back to me or spoke. Then peered the indefinite unshapen dawn With vacant gloaming, sad as half-lit minds The weak-limned hour when sick men's sighs are drained. And while I wondered on their being withdrawn Gagged by the smothering Wing which none unbinds I dreaded even a heaven with doors so chained.

You know the old, whilst I know the new: But to-morrow you shall know this too.

Death Poems

I was away, far enough away: Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day. While rain, with eve in partnership Descended darkly, drip, drip, drip Beyond the last lone lamp I passed Walking slowly, whispering sadly Two linked loiterers, wan, downcast: Some heavy thought constrained each face And blinded them to time and place. The pair seemed lovers, yet absorbed In mental scenes no longer orbed By love's young rays. Each countenance As it slowly, as it sadly Caught the lamplight's yellow glance Held in suspense a misery At things which had been or might be. When I retrod that watery way Some hours beyond the droop of day Still I found pacing there the twain Just as slowly, just as sadly Heedless of the night and rain.

One could but wonder who they were And what wild woe detained them there.

Scary Stories In The Snow - ULTIMATE COMPILATION - (Scary Stories)

Though thirty years of blur and blot Have slid since I beheld that spot And saw in curious converse there Moving slowly, moving sadly That mysterious tragic pair Its olden look may linger on - All but the couple; they have gone. Who knows, indeed And yet To me, when nights are weird and wet Without those comrades there at tryst Creeping slowly, creeping sadly That lone lane does not exist. There they seem brooding on their pain And will, while such a lane remain. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew'd. Thrice and once the hedge-pig whined.

Harpier cries "'Tis time, 'tis time. Round about the cauldron go; In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under cold stone Days and nights has thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got Boil thou first i' the charmed pot. Fillet of a fenny snake In the cauldron boil and bake; Eye of newt and toe of frog Wool of bat and tongue of dog Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting Lizard's leg and howlet's wing For a charm of powerful trouble Like a hell-broth boil and bubble. This living hand, now warm and capable Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold And in the icy silence of the tomb So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights That thou would wish thine own heart dry of blood So in my veins red life might stream again And thou be conscience-calm'd - see here it is - I hold it towards you.

They hanged John Farrel in the dawn amid the marketplace; At dusk came Adam Brand to him and spat upon his face. For heard ye not John Farrel's vow to be avenged upon me Come life or death? See how he hangs high on the gallows tree!