Fletcher, John Gould. The Ghosts of an Old House. (In his Goblins and Pagodas.)
Yet I often wonder
If these things are really dead.
If the old trunks never open
Letting out grey flapping things at twilight.
If it is all as safe and dull
As it seems?
Furlong, Alice. The Warnings. (In Padric Gregory's Modern Anglo-Irish Verse.)
I was weaving by the door-post, when I heard the Death-Watch beating;
And I signed the Cross upon me, and I spoke the Name of Three.
High and fair, through cloud and air, a silver moon was fleeting,
But the night began to darken as the Death-Watch beat for me.
Gibson, Wilfrid Wilson. The Blind Rower. (In his Collected Poems. 1917.)
Some say they saw the dead man steer—
The dead man steer the blind man home—
Though, when they found him dead,
His hand was cold as lead.
—— Comrades.
As I was marching in Flanders
A ghost kept step with me—
Kept step with me and chuckled,
And muttered ceaselessly.
—— The Lodging House.
And when at last I stand outside
My garret door I hardly dare
To open it,
Lest when I fling it wide
With candle lit
And reading in my only chair
I find myself already there.