scary witch poems
He saw the Lake, and a meteor bright Quick over its surface play'd - "Welcome," he said, "my dear one's light!"

2020 Bustle Digital Group. And the dim shore echoed for many a night The name of the death-cold maid. There watched I for the Dead; but no ghost woke. By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807 - 1882). That the midnight sea itself is swept By those who have long beneath it slept. Ensure that some suitably creepy music is playing softly in the background, and then start reading the poems aloud in a low, dramatic voice. ", "Oh not to-morrow into the dark, I pray; Oh not to-morrow, too soon to go away: Here I feel warm and well-content and gay: Give me another year, another day. 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. 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. I live in a house with no windowsa black curtain hangs on my door.The voices of conscience torment meI live in a room with no floor. May 7, 2019 - Explore Cosplay4U's board "Scary witch" on Pinterest. Pray why are you so bare, so bare Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; And why, when I go through the shade you throw Runs a shudder over me? Bring forth the raisins and the nuts - To-night All Hallows' Spectre struts Along the moonlit way. The arm that used to take your arm Is took to Dr. Vyse; And both my legs are gone to walk The hospital at Guy's. 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. Kept treading – treading – till it seemed, Kept beating – beating – till I thought. To the waters and the wild With a faery, hand in hand For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. In Town she dwelt:- forsaken stood the Hall: Worms ate the floors, the tapestry fled the wall: No fire the kitchens cheerless grate displayed;No cheerful light the long-closed sash conveyed;The crawling worm, that turns a summer-fly,Here spun his shroud and laid him up to dieThe winter-death:- upon the bed of sate,The bat shrill-shrieking wooed his flickering mate;To empty rooms the curious came no more,From empty cellars turned the angry poor,And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door. Now they have taken him from the jail And hard and fast they ride And the leader laughs low down in his throat As they halt my trunk beside. Stiffened and aching from their long disuse; I watch all night and not one ghost comes forth. Each one whom Life exiled I named and called. Let the words of each of the poems enthrall you, and let their suggestions of mysterious forces lurking in the darkness around you awaken those long suppressed primeval fears. My William, we must part! I have walked a great while over the snow And I am not tall nor strong. Now first, as I shut the door I was alone In the new house; and the wind Began to moan. Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. "Yet never a word the people spoke, in fear and wild surprise-For the grisly corpse raised up its head and stared with sightless eyes. he said. Where the bat dips on the wingand spectral choirs on breezes sing;Where swords of ancient battles clashand shimmering shades for freedom dash. The beacon light shines on the hill The will-o'-wisps the forests fill With flashes filched from noon; And witches on their broomsticks spry Speed here and yonder in the sky And lift their strident voices high Unto the Hunter's Moon. 'Tis night when Goblin, Elf, and Fay Come dancing in their best array To prank and royster on the way And ease the troubled soul.

We are afraid They would envy our delight In our graves by glow-worm night. Whither? 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. They have fooled the jailer with lying words They have fooled the man with lies; The bolts unbar, the locks are drawn And the great door open flies. And they say of this old, mossy wood Whose hoary trunks have for ages stood That every knoll and dim-lit glade Is haunted at night by its restless Shade. Come away, O human child!

You may not love all of the poems, but you (probably) can't deny that they stand out from the crowd. So take a deep breath, steady your nerves, and then click on a poem of your choice. Acting evil was her game, Knew the spells to make a flame. And never more shall leaves come forth On the bough that bears the ban; I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead From the curse of a guiltless man. 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. "The Hour and the Ghost" by Cristina Rossetti, "To the Dead in the Graveyard Underneath My Window" by Adelaide Crapsey. 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! More Poems by William Shakespeare. Old at once was the house And I was old; My ears were teased with the dread Of what was foretold.

2020 Bustle Digital Group. A poem grounded in the horrors of mental illness, by an iconic writer. Old Scary Witch. This one is creepy because of a monster. I thought the last of all my cares Would end with my last minute; But though I went to my long home I didn't stay long in it. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bedAnd sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. But be warned: just because these poems are shorter than your typical horror novel or scary story doesn't mean they're any less terrifying. You know the old, whilst I know the new: But to-morrow you shall know this too. Don't go to weep upon my grave And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie. Whence the poised fragment tottering seems to throw A trembling shadow on the plain below Here oft, when evening sheds her twilight ray And gilds with fainter beam departing day With breathless gaze, and cheek with terror pale The lingering shepherd startles at the tale How at deep midnight by the moon’s chill glance Unearthly forms prolong the viewless dance;While on each whispering breeze that murmurs by His busied fancy hears the hollow sigh. I wake when the shadows have fallenand walk when the memories cease.When purpose in life has no meaning and only the wicked find peace. Nights of storm, days of mist, without end; Sad days when the sun Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs Not yest begun.

Most people associate it with love, romance, and heartache, but poetry actually has a long and rich history of being, well, spooky. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

The loud wind never reached the ship Yet now the ship moved on! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain Which to their corses came again But a troop of spirits blest: For when it dawned - they dropped their arms And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths And from their bodies passed. So from the world of spirits there descends A bridge of light, connecting it with this, O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

I was away, far enough away: Let me sleep now till the Judgment Day.". There are poems about ghosts and witches, spirits and spectres, dead men coming back to avenge themselves upon the living, and numerous other nefarious and creepy scenarios. ", "From the other world I come back to you My locks are uncurled with dripping drenching dew. That's where the creepiness really sinks in. And travellers, now, within that valley Through the red-litten windows see Vast forms, that move fantastically To a discordant melody While, like a ghastly rapid river Through the pale door A hideous throng rush out forever And laugh - but smile no more. All rights reserved. This is not that poetry. "Tis proven here a hempen noose is stronger than man's hate! The cutting wind is a cruel foe. Oh, the judge, he wore a mask of black And the doctor one of white And the minister, with his oldest son Was curiously bedight. They took her lightly back Between the night and morrow They thought that she was fast asleep But she was dead with sorrow.

From Edgar Allan Poe and Emily Dickinson to Rainer Maria Rilke and John Keats, poets have been penning spine-tingling stanzas about things like haunted houses, wicked witches, and possessed people for centuries. And the Moon that night, With a grey, cold light Each baleful object tips; One half of her form, Is seen through the storm The other half's hid in Eclipse!And the cold wind howls, And the Thunder growls And the Lightning is broad and bright; And altogether, It's very bad weather And an unpleasant sort of a night! My hands are stone, and my voice a groan And the worst of death is past.

Clouds beyond clouds above me Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go. ", "Life is gone, then love too is gone It was a reed that I leant upon: Never doubt I will leave you alone And not wake you rattling bone with bone. October is here, and you know what that means: it is officially time to get in the Halloween spirit. Halloween is the perfect night to gather by the light of a lone candle, or to sit by the flickering flame of a log fire and conjure up creepy images of ghosties and ghoulies, long-leggetie beasties, and things that go bump in the night. What I will say, I will not tell thee now Lest that preserve thee; and since my love is spent I'had rather thou shouldst painfully repent Than by my threat'nings rest still innocent. Something in me is lost, forever lost,Some vital thing has gone out of my heart,And I must walk the way of life a ghostAmong the sons of earth, a thing apart;For I was born, far from my native clime,Under the white man’s menace, out of time.". The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 - 1834). But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair That goes down to the empty hall Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call. "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" Come follow us, and smile as we; We sail to the rock in the ancient waves Where the snow falls by thousands into the sea And the drown'd and the shipwreck'd have happy graves. I am but a little maiden still My little white feet are sore. At the riverside fell Adam Brand with a scream that rent the skies; Across him fell John Farrel's corpse nor ever the twain did rise. To me it sounds a bit funny.

They leave all hope behind who enter there: One certitude while sane they cannot leave One anodyne for torture and despair; The certitude of Death, which no reprieve Can put off long; and which, divinely tender But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave.


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