Tag: Strange Visits

The Little Sister by Dora Sigerson Shorter

The wind knocks at the window,
⁠And my heart is full of fear.
For I know when it is calling
⁠That some evil thing is near.

It whispers in the chimney,
⁠And I strike the log to name,
Lest it come down and take me
⁠To the land that hath no name.

For once I had a sister,
⁠Who now am left alone,
And here we sat together,
⁠When the wind did sigh and moan«.

There came a gentle knocking
⁠Quick and sudden at the door.
And my sister hushed my terror.
⁠Saying, “’Tis the wind, a-stór!”

She took my arms from round her,
⁠She kissed me, cheek and chin,
But I cried, “Oh, little sister.
⁠Do not let the robber in!”

She rose up from me laughing,
⁠But her face was strange and white.
And she opened wide the window,
⁠Looking long into the night.
And I said, “Oh, little sister,
There is on your cheek a tear!”
“’Tis but the rain,” she whispered;
But my heart was full of fear.

And I said, “Oh, little sister.
There’s a hand upon the door.”
Soft she chid me from my crying,
Saying, “’Tis the wind, a-stór.”

And turning from me smiling.
She took down the bar and chain,
But her cheek was like the lily
As she went into the rain.

And I said, “Oh, little sister,
Will you then return no more?”
But I only heard the pushing
Of the wind upon the door.

Long I cried, “Oh, little sister.
Will you soon come back again?”
But I only heard the beating
Of the storm upon the pane.

Now my mother sits in sorrow,
Weeping all the livelong day;
And I think she dreads the robber
Who did take her child away.

So I put up bar and shutter
When the wind goes howling by.
For I know when it comes knocking
That some evil thing is nigh.

Wraith by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,
That you haunt my door?”
—Surely it is not I she’s wanting;
Someone living here before—
“Nobody’s in the house but me:
You may come in if you like and see.”

Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,—
Have you seen her, any of you?—
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
And the garden showing through?

Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,
Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.—

Ever see her, any of you?—
Strangest thing I’ve ever known,—
Every night since I moved in,
And I came to be alone.

“Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not come in!
This is I that you hear rocking;
Nobody’s with me, nor has been!”

Curious, how she tried the window,—
Odd, the way she tries the door,—
Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before …

The Fair Little Maiden by Dora Sigerson Shorter

“There is one at the door, Wolfe O’Driscoll,
At the door, who bids you to come!”
“Who is he that wakes me in the darkness,
Calling when all the world is dumb?”

“Six horses has he to his carriage.
Six horses blacker than the night,
And their twelve red eyes in the shadows—
Twelve lamps he carries for his light;

“His coach is a herse black and mouldy,
Within a coffin open wide:
He asks for your soul, Wolfe O’Driscoll,
Who doth call at the door outside.”

“Who let him thro’ the gates of my gardens,
Where stronger bolts have never been?”
“The father of the fair little maiden
You drove to her grave deep and green.”

“And who let him pass through the courtyard.
Loosening the bar and the chain?”
“Who but the brother of the maiden
Who lies in the cold and the rain!”

“Then who drew the bolts at the portal
And into my house bade him go?”
“The mother of the poor young maiden
Who lies in her youth all so low.”
“Who stands, that he dare not enter.
The door of my chamber, between?”
“O, the ghost of the fair little maiden
Who lies in the churchyard green.”

The Dead Coach by Katharine Tynan Hinkson

At night when sick folk wakeful lie,
I heard the dead coach passing by,
And heard it passing wild and fleet,
And knew my time was come not yet.

Click-clack, click-clack, the hoofs went past,
Who takes the dead coach travels fast,
On and away through the wild night,
The dead must rest ere morning light.

If one might follow on its track
The coach and horses, midnight black,
Within should sit a shape of doom
That beckons one and all to come.

God pity them to-night who wait
To hear the dead coach at their gate,
And him who hears, though sense be dim,
The mournful dead coach stop for him.

He shall go down with a still face,
And mount the steps and take his place,
The door be shut, the order said!
How fast the pace is with the dead!

Click-clack, click-clack, the hour is chill,
The dead coach climbs the distant hill.
Now, God, the Father of us all,
Wipe Thou the widow’s tears that fall!

Forbidden Magic by Robert E. Howard

There came to me a Man one summer night,
When all the world lay silent in the stars,
And moonlight crossed my room with ghostly bars.
He whispered hints of weird, unhallowed sight;
I followed – then in waves of spectral light
Mounted the shimmery ladders of my soul
Where moon-pale spiders, huge as dragons, stole –
Great forms like moths, with wings of wispy white.

Around the world the sighing of the loon
Shook misty lakes beneath the false-dawn’s gleams;
Rose tinted shone the sky-line’s minaret;
I rose in fear, and then with blood and sweat
Beat out the iron fabrics of my dreams,
And shaped of them a web to snare the moon.

Unwelcome by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

We were young, we were merry, we were very very wise,
And the door stood open at our feast,
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.

O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,
The loudest voice was still.
The jest died away on our lips as thy passed,
And the rays of July struck chill.

The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,
The white bread black as soot.
The hound forgot the hand of her lord,
She fell down at his foot.

Low let me lie, where the dead dog lies,
Ere I sit me down again at a feast,
When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.

Luke Havergal by Edward Arlington Robinson

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,
And in the twilight wait for what will come.
The leaves will whisper there of her, and some,
Like flying words, will strike you as they fall;
But go, and if you listen she will call.
Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies
To rift the fiery night that’s in your eyes;
But there, where western glooms are gathering,
The dark will end the dark, if anything:
God slays Himself with every leaf that flies,
And hell is more than half of paradise.
No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies—
In eastern skies.

Out of a grave I come to tell you this,
Out of a grave I come to quench the kiss
That flames upon your forehead with a glow
That blinds you to the way that you must go.
Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,
Bitter, but one that faith may never miss.
Out of a grave I come to tell you this—
To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal,
There are the crimson leaves upon the wall.
Go, for the winds are tearing them away,—
Nor think to riddle the dead words they say,
Nor any more to feel them as they fall;
But go, and if you trust her she will call.
There is the western gate, Luke Havergal—
Luke Havergal.