Men there may be so immune from timidity
Never a spectre could fill them with fright,
Men who could keep their accustomed placidity
Were they to meet in the gloom of the night
Lady Hermione tramping the corridor,
Wicked Sir Guy with his fetters adrag,
Or a plebeian who shrieked something horrid or
Carried his head in a vanity bag.

Not such am I. Every hair at the vertical,
I should resort to hysterical screams
Did a diaphanous Lady (or Sir) tickle
Me on the cheek in the midst of my dreams;
Yet when, at Yule, I hear people converse on all
Manner of spooks round the log in the grate,
Often I wish that I too had a personal
Psychic experience I could relate.

I am a coward when midnight looms murkily,
But when the sunlight of noon's at its best
I could face calmly—I'd even say perkily—
Nebulous figures as well as the rest;
So I'll to Whitby, and (on the hypothesis
That she'll obligingly come to me there)
Wait in its abbey (see text). By my troth, this is
Just such a ghost as I'm ready to dare.