Those forms we fancy shadows, those strange lights 
That flash on lone morasses, the quick wind 
That smites us by the roadside are the Night's 
Innumerable children. Unconfined 
By shroud or coffin, disembodied souls, 
Still on probation, steal into the air 
From ancient battlefields and churchyard knolls 
At the day's ending. Pestilence and despair 
Fly with the startled bats at set of sun; 
And wheresoever murders have been done, 
In crowded palaces or lonely woods, 
Where'er a soul has sold itself and lost 
Its high inheritance, there, hovering, broods 
Some mute, invisible, accursèd ghost.