The Ghost.
“Would’st thou from my own circle me coerce?”
Spake the deep voice of hollowest refrain.
“It is to me that hosts of heroes yield;
I glance but on the people from the height,
They are dispersed like ashes ’neath my gaze.
Out of my breath proceeds the blast of death.
I journey loftily upon the wind;
And tempests hurry forth themselves on high
Around my brow, cold, melancholy, pale;