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قراءة كتاب Poetry of the Supernatural

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Poetry of the Supernatural

Poetry of the Supernatural

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دار النشر: Project Gutenberg
الصفحة رقم: 3

red sail at pitch of night.

Hawthorne, Julian. Were-wolf. (In Stedman's American Anthology.)

Dabbled with blood are its awful lips
Grinning in horrible glee.
The wolves that follow with scurrying feet
Sniffing that goblin scent, at once
Scatter in terror, while it slips
Away, to the shore of the frozen sea.

Herrick, Robert. The Hag.

The Hag is astride,
This night for to ride,
The Devil and she together.
Through thick, and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

Hood, Thomas. The Haunted House.

O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
"The place is Haunted!"

Houghton, George. The Handsel Ring. (In Stedman's American Anthology.)

A man and maid are plighting their troth in the tomb of an old knight, the girl's father, when the man lucklessly drops the ring through a crack in the floor of the tomb.

"Let not thy heart be harried and sore
For a little thing!"
"Nay! but behold what broodeth there!
See the cold sheen of his silvery hair!
Look how his eyeballs roll and stare,
Seeking thy handsel ring!"

Hugo, Victor. The Djinns. (In Charles A. Dana's The Household Book of Poetry.)

Ha! they are on us, close without!
Shut tight the shelter where we lie!
With hideous din the monster rout,
Dragon and vampire, fill the sky!

Joyce, Patrick Weston. The Old Hermit's Story. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.)

My curragh sailed on the western main,
And I saw, as I viewed the sea,
A withered old man upon a wave,
And he fixed his eyes on me.

Keats, John. La Belle Dame sans Merci.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cry'd—-"La belle dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall."

—— Lamia.

"A serpent!" echoed he; no sooner said,
Than with a frightful scream she vanished:
And Lycius' arms were empty of delight,
As were his limbs of life, from that same night.

Kingsley, Charles. The Weird Lady.

The swevens came up round Harold the earl
Like motes in the sunnès beam;
And over him stood the Weird Lady
In her charmèd castle over the sea,
Sang "Lie thou still and dream."

Leconte de Lisle, Charles. Les Elfes. (In The Oxford Book of French Verse.)

—Ne m'arrête pas, fantôme odieux!
Je vais épouser ma belle aux doux yeux.
—O mon cher époux, la tombe éternelle
Sera notre lit de noce, dit-elle.
Je suis morte!—Et lui, la voyant ainsi,
D'angoisse et d'amour tombe mort aussi.

Lockhart, Arthur John. The Waters of Carr. (In T. H. Rand's A Treasury of Canadian Verse.)

'Tis the Indian's babe, they say,
Fairy stolen; changed a fay;
And still I hear her calling, calling, calling,
In the mossy woods of Carr!

Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth. The Ballad of Carmilhan.

For right ahead lay the Ship of the Dead
The ghostly Carmilhan!
Her masts were stripped, her yards were bare,
And on her bowsprit, poised in air,
Sat the Klaboterman.

Macdonald, George. Janet. (In Linton and Stoddard's Ballads and Romances.)

The night was lown and the stars sat still
A glintin' down the sky;
And the souls crept out of their mouldy graves
A' dank wi' lying by.

McKay, Charles. The Kelpie of Corrievreckan. (In Dugald Mitchell's The Book of Highland Verse.)

And every year at Beltan E'en
The Kelpie gallops across the green
On a steed as fleet as the wintry wind,
With Jessie's mournful ghost behind.

Mackenzie, Donald A. The Banshee. (In The Book of Highland Verse.)

The linen that would wrap the dead
She beetled on a stone,
She stood with dripping hands, blood-red,
Low singing all alone—
"His linen robes are pure and white,
For Fergus More must die tonight."

Mallet, David. William and Margaret. (In W. M. Dixon's The Edinburgh Book of Scottish Verse.)

The hungry worm my sister is,
The winding sheet I wear.
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.

Moore, Thomas. The Lake of the Dismal Swamp.

They made her a grave too cold and damp
For a soul so warm and true;
And she's gone to the Lake of the Dismal Swamp
Where all night long, by a firefly lamp,
She paddles her birch canoe.

Morris, William. The Tune of Seven Towers.

No one walks there now;
Except in the white

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