A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
	Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?

Shakespeare.    

	So many ghosts, and forms of fright,
	Have started from their graves to-night,
	They have driven sleep from mine eyes away;
	I will go down to the chapel and pray.

Longfellow.    

	Who gather round, and wonder at the tale
	Of horrid apparition, tall and ghastly,
	That walks at dead of night, or takes his stand
	O’er some new-open’d grave; and (strange to tell!)
	Evanishes at crowing of the cock.

Blair.    

	Now it is the time of night,
	That the graves, all gaping wide,
	Every one lets forth its sprite,
	In the church-way paths to glide.

Shakespeare.    

	My people too were scared with eerie sounds,
	A footstep, a low throbbing in the walls,
	A noise of falling weights that never fell,
	Weird whispers, bells that rang without a hand,
	Door-handles turn’d when none was at the door,
	And bolted doors that open’d of themselves;
	And on betwixt the dark and light had seen
	Her, bending by the cradle of her babe.

Tennyson.