John Bannister Tabb

The Ghost Chamber

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Into the lonely room,
Spawning an icy gloom,
Lost in a wandering swoon
Gloats the wide-horned moon.


Silent the shadows gray
Shrink from her touch away,
Loathing her leprous light
Spotting the robe of Night,
Moulting a hoary gloom
Over a haunted room.


Cometh no whisper there:
Spasms of dank despair
Curdle the echoes round,
Stifling the birth of sound
In the grim charnel-womb
Of the deserted room.


Stark are the staring walls,
Like unto lidless balls--
Domes of departed sleep--
Doomed evermore to keep
Watch o'er the prisoned gloom
Of the forsaken room.

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