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Best Famous Earwig Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Earwig poems. This is a select list of the best famous Earwig poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Earwig poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of earwig poems.

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Written by Thomas Hood | Create an image from this poem

The Haunted House

 Oh, very gloomy is the house of woe,
Where tears are falling while the bell is knelling,
With all the dark solemnities that show
That Death is in the dwelling!

Oh, very, very dreary is the room
Where Love, domestic Love, no longer nestles,
But smitten by the common stroke of doom,
The corpse lies on the trestles!

But house of woe, and hearse, and sable pall,
The narrow home of the departed mortal,
Ne’er looked so gloomy as that Ghostly Hall,
With its deserted portal!

The centipede along the threshold crept,
The cobweb hung across in mazy tangle,
And in its winding sheet the maggot slept
At every nook and angle.
The keyhole lodged the earwig and her brood, The emmets of the steps has old possession, And marched in search of their diurnal food In undisturbed procession.
As undisturbed as the prehensile cell Of moth or maggot, or the spider’s tissue, For never foot upon that threshold fell, To enter or to issue.
O’er all there hung the shadow of a fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted.
Howbeit, the door I pushed—or so I dreamed-- Which slowly, slowly gaped, the hinges creaking With such a rusty eloquence, it seemed That Time himself was speaking.
But Time was dumb within that mansion old, Or left his tale to the heraldic banners That hung from the corroded walls, and told Of former men and manners.
Those tattered flags, that with the opened door, Seemed the old wave of battle to remember, While fallen fragments danced upon the floor Like dead leaves in December.
The startled bats flew out, bird after bird, The screech-owl overhead began to flutter, And seemed to mock the cry that she had heard Some dying victim utter! A shriek that echoed from the joisted roof, And up the stair, and further still and further, Till in some ringing chamber far aloof In ceased its tale of murther! Meanwhile the rusty armor rattled round, The banner shuddered, and the ragged streamer; All things the horrid tenor of the sound Acknowledged with a tremor.
The antlers where the helmet hung, and belt, Stirred as the tempest stirs the forest branches, Or as the stag had trembled when he felt The bloodhound at his haunches.
The window jingled in its crumbled frame, And through its many gaps of destitution Dolorous moans and hollow sighings came, Like those of dissolution.
The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball, Touched by some impulse occult or mechanic; And nameless beetles ran along the wall In universal panic.
The subtle spider, that, from overhead, Hung like a spy on human guilt and error, Suddenly turned, and up its slender thread Ran with a nimble terror.
The very stains and fractures on the wall, Assuming features solemn and terrific, Hinted some tragedy of that old hall, Locked up in hieroglyphic.
Some tale that might, perchance, have solved the doubt, Wherefore, among those flags so dull and livid, The banner of the bloody hand shone out So ominously vivid.
Some key to that inscrutable appeal Which made the very frame of Nature quiver, And every thrilling nerve and fiber feel So ague-like a shiver.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear, A sense of mystery the spirit daunted, And said, as plain as whisper in the ear, The place is haunted! Prophetic hints that filled the soul with dread, But through one gloomy entrance pointing mostly, The while some secret inspiration said, “That chamber is the ghostly!” Across the door no gossamer festoon Swung pendulous, --no web, no dusty fringes, No silky chrysalis or white cocoon, About its nooks and hinges.
The spider shunned the interdicted room, The moth, the beetle, and the fly were banished, And when the sunbeam fell athwart the gloom, The very midge had vanished.
One lonely ray that glanced upon a bed, As if with awful aim direct and certain, To show the Bloody Hand, in burning red, Embroidered on the curtain.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem

Oberons Feast

 Hapcot! To thee the Fairy State 
I with discretion, dedicate.
Because thou prizest things that are Curious, and un-familiar.
Take first the feast; these dishes gone, We'll see the Fairy Court anon.
A little mushroon table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread; A moon-parched grain of purest wheat, With some small glit'ring grit, to eat His choice bits with; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice.
But all this while his eye is serv'd, We must not think his ear was sterv'd: But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, the puling fly, The piping gnat for minstralcy.
And now, we must imagine first, The elves present to quench his thirst A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and besweetened in a blue And pregnant violet; which done His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies, Of which he eats, and tastes a little Of that we call the "cuckoo's spittle.
" A little fuzz-ball-pudding stands By, yet not blessed by his hands, That was too coarse; but then forthwith He ventures boldly on the pith Of sugar'd rush, and eats the sag And well bestrutted bee's sweet bag; Gladding his palate with some store Of emit's eggs; what would he more? But beards of mice, a newt's stew'd thigh, A bloated earwig, and a fly, With the red-capp'd worm that's shut Within the concave of a nut, Brown as his tooth.
a little moth Late fatten'd in a piece of cloth; With wither'd cherries, mandrake's ears, Mole's eyes; to these, the slain stag's tears, The unctuous dewlaps of a snail, The broke-heart of a nightingale O'er-come in music; with a wine, Ne'er ravish'd from the flattering vine, But gently press'd from the soft side Of the most sweet and dainty bride, Brought in a dainty daisy, which He fully quaffs up to bewitch His blood to height; this done, commended Grace by his priest, the feast is ended.
Written by Rg Gregory | Create an image from this poem

night-piece

 what's that
  i'm awake
a bang like a door or a foot
knocking a chair 
  who's there

tense i lie in my bed my face
stretching out on the black air
my ears strain.
.
.
.
.
.
a creak this time like a cat on the stair - but we have no cat if the door-handle turned and a.
.
.
.
shape came in.
.
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.
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darkness clutches at my startled hair spiders walk my skin would i dare to go for it with my fists - my fists clench doped with sweat would i scream faint or lie there staring my eyes pushing out in jets of fear waiting for what - what would it do a short nipped sound from the earwig night drops in my ear i sit up pinching my breath - was it by the door or the window - i can't be sure i wait for the next sound for the blade of the knife i become aware of the ticking clock.
.
.
and my father's heavy breathing in the next room the curtain moves and a faint light like a living thing creeps on the bed something - a twig - scratches on the pane a car changes gear on a nearby hill there is a creak in the house again a door rattles in a hidden wind - an owl's cry dogs barking - even a distant train - all friendly and easy to explain i relax and yawn get out and stand by the window looking out on the soft outlines of houses silent lawns making my own peace with night when i return to bed at last (all tension gone) birds are standing on the treetops bringing in the dawn