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George Gordon Byron - Don Juan: Canto The Sixteenth
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    But seldom pay the absent, nor would look 
  Farther - it might or might not be so. 
    But Juan, sitting silent in his nook, 
  Observing little in his reverie, 
  Yet saw this much, which he was glad to see. 

  The ghost at least had done him this much good, 
    In making him as silent as a ghost, 
  If in the circumstances which ensued 
    He gain`d esteem where it was worth the most. 
  And certainly Aurora had renew`d 
    In him some feelings he had lately lost, 
  Or harden`d; feelings which, perhaps ideal, 
  Are so divine, that I must deem them real:-- 

  The love of higher things and better days; 
    The unbounded hope, and heavenly ignorance 
  Of what is call`d the world, and the world`s ways; 
    The moments when we gather from a glance 
  More joy than from all future pride or praise, 
    Which kindle manhood, but can ne`er entrance 
  The heart in an existence of its own, 
  Of which another`s bosom is the zone. 

  Who would not sigh Ai ai Tan Kuuerheian 
    That hath a memory, or that had a heart? 
  Alas! her star must fade like that of Dian: 
    Ray fades on ray, as years on years depart. 
  Anacreon only had the soul to tie an 
    Unwithering myrtle round the unblunted dart 
  Of Eros: but though thou hast play`d us many tricks, 
  Still we respect thee, `Alma Venus Genetrix!` 

  And full of sentiments, sublime as billows 
    Heaving between this world and worlds beyond, 
  Don Juan, when the midnight hour of pillows 
    Arrived, retired to his; but to despond 
  Rather than rest. Instead of poppies, willows 
    Waved o`er his couch; he meditated, fond 
  Of those sweet bitter thoughts which banish sleep, 
  And make the worldling sneer, the youngling weep. 

  The night was as before: he was undrest, 
    Saving his night-gown, which is an undress; 
  Completely `sans culotte,` and without vest; 
    In short, he hardly could be clothed with less: 
  But apprehensive of his spectral guest, 
    He sate with feelings awkward to express 
  (By those who have not had such visitations), 
  Expectant of the ghost`s fresh operations. 

  And not in vain he listen`d;--Hush! what`s that? 
    I see--I see--Ah, no!--`tis not--yet `tis--
  Ye powers! it is the-the-the-Pooh! the cat! 
    The devil may take that stealthy pace of his! 
  So like a spiritual pit-a-pat, 
    Or tiptoe of an amatory Miss, 
  Gliding the first time to a rendezvous, 
  And dreading the chaste echoes of her shoe. 

  Again--what is`t? The wind? No, no--this time 
    It is the sable friar as before, 
  With awful footsteps regular as rhyme, 
    Or (as rhymes may be in these days) much more. 
  Again through shadows of the night sublime, 
    When deep sleep fell on men, and the world wore 
  The starry darkness round her like a girdle 
  Spangled with gems--the monk made his blood curdle. 

  A noise like to wet fingers drawn on glass, 
    Which sets the teeth on edge; and a slight clatter, 
  Like showers which on the midnight gusts will pass, 
    Sounding like very supernatural water, 
  Came over Juan`s ear, which throbb`d, alas! 
    For immaterialism`s a serious matter; 
  So that even those whose faith is the most great 
  In souls immortal, shun them tete-a-tete. 

  Were his eyes open?--Yes! and his mouth too. 
    Surprise has this effect--to make one dumb, 
  Yet leave the gate which eloquence slips through 
    As wide as if a long speech were to come. 
  Nigh and more nigh the awful echoes drew, 
    Tremendous to a mortal tympanum: 
  His eyes were open, and (as was before 
  Stated) his mouth. What open`d next?--the door. 

  It open`d with a most infernal creak, 
    Like that of hell. `Lasciate ogni speranza 
  Voi che entrate!` The hinge seem`d to speak, 
    Dreadful as Dante`s rhima, or this stanza; 
  Or - but all words upon such themes are weak: 
    A single shade`s sufficient to entrance 
  Hero - for what is substance to a spirit? 
  Or how is`t matter trembles to come near it? 

  The door flew wide,--not swiftly, but, as fly 
    The sea -gulls, with a steady, sober flight, 
And then swung back, nor close, but stood awry, 
  Half letting in long shadows on the light, 
Which still in Juan`s candlesticks burned high, 
  For he had two, both tolerably bright, 
And in the doorway, darkening darkness, stood 
The sable Friar in his solemn hood. 

  Between two worlds life hovers like a star,
    `Twixt night and morn, upon the horizon`s verge.
  How little do we know that which we are!
    How less what we may be! The eternal surge
  Of time and tide rolls on, and bears afar
    Our bubbles; as the old burst, new emerge,
  Lash`d from the foam of ages; while the graves
  Of empires heave but like some passing waves.

Don Juan shook, as erst he had been shaken
  The night before, but being sick of shaking, 
He first inclined to think he had been mistaken,
  And then to be ashamed of such mistaking. 
His own internal ghost began to awaken
  Within him and to quell his corporal quaking, 
Hinting that soul and body on the whole 
Were odds against a disembodied soul.

And then his dread grew wrath, and his wrath fierce,
  And he arose, advanced. The shade retreated, 
But Juan, eager now the truth to pierce, 
  Followed, his veins no longer cold, but heated, 
Resolved to thrust the mystery carte and tierce,
  At whatsoever risk of being defeated.
The ghost stopped, menaced, then retired, until 
He reached the ancient wall, then stood stone still.

Juan put forth one arm. Eternal powers!
  It touched no soul nor body, but the wall, 
On which the moonbeams fell in silvery showers
  Checkered with all the tracery of the hall. 
He shuddered, as no doubt the bravest cowers
  When he can`t tell what `tis that doth appal. 
How odd, a single hobgoblin`s nonentity 
Should cause more fear than a whole host`s identity. 

But still the shade remained, the blue eyes glared,
  And rather variably for stony death.
Yet one thing rather good the grave had spared;
  The ghost had a remarkably sweet breath.
A straggling curl showed he had been fair-haired.
  A red lip with two rows of pearls beneath
Gleamed forth, as through the casement`s ivy shroud
The moon peeped, just escaped from a grey cloud.

And Juan, puzzled but still curious, thrust
  His other arm forth. Wonder upon wonder!
It pressed upon a hard but glowing bust, 
 Which beat as if there was a warm heart under. 
He found, as people on most trials must,
  That he had made at first a silly blunder 
And that in his confusion he had caught 
Only the wall, instead of what he sought

The ghost, if ghost it were, seemed a sweet soul
  As ever lurked beneath a holy hood.
A dimpled chin, a neck of ivory stole 
  Forth into something much like flesh and blood. 
Back fell the sable frock and dreary cowl
  And they revealed, alas, that ere they should, 
In full, voluptuous, but not o`ergrown bulk, 
The phantom of her frolic Grace - Fita-Fulke!
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