Vainly in broken phalanx clamorous Did the scared rooks protest, and all in vain The moths on indolent white damask wings At door and casement rallied. Wyndham Towers Should have a bride, and ghosts had word to quit. And now, behold what strange thing came to pass. A certain workman, in the eastern wing Plying his craft alone as the day waned—      One Gregory Nokes, a very honest soul, By trade wood-carver—stumbled on a door Leading to nowhere at an alcove's end, A double door that of itself swung back In such strange way as no man ever saw; And there, within a closet, on the flags Were two grim shapes which, vaguely seen at first In the half light, grew presently distinct—      Two gnomes or vampires seemed they, or dire imps Straight from the Pit, in guise fantastical Of hose and doublet: one stretched out full length Supine, and one in terror-stricken sort Half toppled forward on the bended knee, Grasping with vise-like grip the other's wrist, As who should say, Arouse thee, sleep no more! But said it not. If they were quick or dead, No sign they gave beyond this sad dumb show. Blurred one face was, yet luminous, like the moon Caught in the fleecy network of a cloud, Or seen glassed on the surface of a tarn When the wind crinkles it and makes all dim; The other, drawn and wrenched by mortal throes, And in the aspect such beseeching look As might befall some poor wretch called to compt On the sudden, even as he kneels at prayer, With Mercy! turned to frost upon the lip. Thus much saw Nokes within the closet there Ere he drew breath; then backing step by step, The chisel clutched in still uplifted hand, His eyes still fixed upon the ghosts, he reached An open window giving on the court Where the stone-cutters were; to them he called Softly, in whispers under his curved palm, Lest peradventure a loud word should rouse The phantoms; but ere foot could climb the stair, Or the heart's pulses count the sum of ten, Through both dread shapes, as at God's finger-touch, A shiver ran, the wavering outlines broke, And suddenly a chill and mist-like breath Touched Nokes's cheek as he at casement leaned, And nought was left of that most piteous pair Save two long rapiers of some foreign make Lying there crossed, a mass of flaky rust. O luckless carver of dead images, Saint's-head or gargoyle, thou hast seen a sight Shall last thee to the confines of the grave! Ill were thy stars or ever thou wert born That thou shouldst look upon a thing forbid! Now in thine eye shall it forever 

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