Haunted Heritage
Primeval campfire bards intone their tale
Of fairyland, where human beings dare not stray—
A nether-realm of water-sprite and fay,
Evoked by incantations and the banshee’s wail,
From out of ancient balladry, Man’s myths prevail,
As legends from a far-gone pagan day
Evolve, and make their immemorial way
Down centuries. Old ghosts, old magic, cannot fail.
They live as fiction on the printed page,
To thrill a reader on a winter’s night
In some Victorian book, shelved by the bed.
Such phantoms mock our glib, computer age,
Where even Science cannot point the light
To drive the cosmic specters from our head.
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