Classic Poem

Do ye whiten with fear at the whine of the wind?
Was it fancy that mingled a moan therein?
Did ye dream?—did ye wake?—when ye saw my face?
Are ye feared of a dead man's face, Barr Wynne?
Barr Wynne, are ye there? Are ye there, Barr Wynne,
Shaken, and brooding on me and your sin—
Are ye there, are ye there, are ye there, Barr Wynne?

A ghost is the whim of a sick man's brain?
Then why need ye start and shiver so?
That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?
But it sounds like another noise we know!
We know, Barr Wynne—and so did Cain!—
How the heavy drops drummed red and slow …
We know, we know, we know, Barr Wynne!

Souls there be that have passed in peace,
But I went forth in a whorl of hate …
There's a whisper would draw me hence, did I heed,
But Heaven must wait, or Hell must wait,
Till I get my grip on your naked ghost
And drag ye along to the judgment gate!
Do ye hear?—it is I, it is I, Barr Wynne!

That was only a trick of the light on the fog?
Then why should ye see my face therein?
There is naught to fear from a dead man's hand?
Then why do ye shrink from my touch, Barr Wynne?
The hour that I meet ye ghost to ghost,
Stripped of the flesh that ye skulk within,
Ye shall learn whether dead men hate, Barr Wynne