The grave’s a fine and private place,
Andrew Marvell, To His Coy Mistress
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Men say, that in this midnight hour,
William Motherwell, Midnight and Moonshine
The disembodied have power
To wander as it liketh them,
By wizard oak and fairy stream,—
Through still and solemn places,
And by old walls and tombs, to dream,
With pale, cold, mournful faces….
