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The Legacy of Androva Series

Spooky Poetry ๐ŸŽƒ๐Ÿ‘ป

Halloween is fast approaching, so it's time to put out a few decorations, watch a scary movie or two, and reread my favourite ghost stories (the Lockwood & Co series by Jonathan Stroud, more info in a previous post here). My cat loves Halloween. She thinks that fake spiders and eyeballs are a lot of fun to play with! ๐Ÿ•ท๐Ÿ‘€

Today's post contains a few spooky poems to set the mood. I hope you enjoy them, and thank you for visiting my blog today ๐Ÿงก๐Ÿ–ค.

Where silver webs of spiders weave
and star-crossed lovers take their leave.
Where curses lay the spirits low
and mortal footsteps fear to go.

Where death holds life in grim embrace
its lines etched on the sinner's face.
Where e'er the march of time is flaunted
voices cry – “this place is haunted.”
— Richard Jones

I have been one acquainted with the night.
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain.
I have outwalked the furthest city light.

I have looked down the saddest city lane.
I have passed by the watchman on his beat
And dropped my eyes, unwilling to explain.

I have stood still and stopped the sound of feet
When far away an interrupted cry
Came over houses from another street,

But not to call me back or say good-by;
And further still at an unearthly height,
One luminary clock against the sky

Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right.
I have been one acquainted with the night.
— Robert Frost

‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest’s ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller’s head:
And he smote upon the door again a second time;
‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
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.
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
’Neath the starred and leafy sky;
For he suddenly smote on the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:—
‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
That I kept my word,’ he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.
— Walter de la Mare

Shadows of a thousand years rise again unseen,
Voices whisper in the trees, "Tonight is Halloween!"
— Dexter Kozen

By the pricking of my thumbs
Something wicked this way comes.
— William Shakespeare

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