Regular readers of my blog will know that I love poetry, and what better occasion than Halloween to delve into the archives and pull out a few of my favourites for conjuring up the magical feeling of this time of year?

First of all, who could resist that most classic of all spine-chilling verses, the witches’ spell from Macbeth (Act IV, Scene 1)? Even the opening stage direction gives me goose-bumps: ‘A dark cave. In the middle, a cauldron boiling. Thunder. Enter the three witches.’

The Witches’ Spell, by William Shakespeare

1 WITCH. Thrice the brinded cat hath mew’d.

2 WITCH. Thrice and once, the hedge-pig whin’d.

3 WITCH. Harpier cries:—’tis time! ’tis time!

1 WITCH. Round about the caldron go;

 In the poison’d entrails throw.—

Toad, that under cold stone,

 Days and nights has thirty-one;

 Swelter’d venom sleeping got,

 Boil thou first i’ the charmed pot!

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;

 Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

2 WITCH. Fillet of a fenny snake,

 In the caldron boil and bake;

 Eye of newt, and toe of frog,

 Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,

 Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,

 Lizard’s leg, and owlet’s wing,—

For a charm of powerful trouble,

 Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;

 Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

3 WITCH. Scale of dragon; tooth of wolf;

 Witches’ mummy; maw and gulf

 Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark;

 Root of hemlock digg’d i the dark;

 Liver of blaspheming Jew;

 Gall of goat, and slips of yew

 Sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse;

 Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;

 Finger of birth-strangled babe

 Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,—

Make the gruel thick and slab:

 Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,

 For the ingrediants of our caldron.

ALL. Double, double toil and trouble;

 Fire burn, and caldron bubble.

2 WITCH. Cool it with a baboon’s blood,

 Then the charm is firm and good.

The next I selected for its sheer spookiness. I love the simplicity of the poem, its evocative language (haunted, silent, moonlight, mysterious…) and its resonating imagery.

The Haunted Chamber, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Each heart has its haunted chamber,

Where the silent moonlight falls!

On the floor are mysterious footsteps,

There are whispers along the walls!

And mine at times is haunted

By phantoms of the Past,

As motionless as shadows

By the silent moonlight cast.

A form sits by the window,

That is not seen by day,

For as soon as the dawn approaches

It vanishes away.

It sits there in the moonlight,

Itself as pale and still,

And points with its airy finger

Across the window-sill.

Without, before the window,

There stands a gloomy pine,

Whose boughs wave upward and downward

As wave these thoughts of mine.

And underneath its branches

Is the grave of a little child,

Who died upon life’s threshold,

And never wept nor smiled.

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!

That haunt my troubled brain?

That vanish when day approaches,

And at night return again?

What are ye, O pallid phantoms!

But the statues without breath,

That stand on the bridge overarching

The silent river of death?

The following poem has quite a different atmosphere – though it ought, perhaps, to be chilling, I find something quite poignant and romantic in the verse. It reminds me a little of Romeo and Juliet’s last moments in the tomb.

Two Ghosts Converse, by Emily Dickinson

I died for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?

‘For beauty,’ I replied.

‘And I for truth, — the two are one;

We brethren are,’ he said.

And so, as kinsmen met at night,

We talked between the rooms,

Until the moss had reached our lips,

And covered up our names.

Finally, to warm a chilled heart, here’s a poem that celebrates the glorious colours of this time of year and the most prevalent of Halloween of symbols, the pumpkin – not so sinister, after all (especially when served up for dinner!).

Theme in Yellow, by Carl Sandburg

I spot the hills

With yellow balls in autumn.

I light the prairie cornfields

Orange and tawny gold clusters

And I am called pumpkins.

On the last of October

When dusk is fallen

Children join hands

And circle round me

Singing ghost songs

And love to the harvest moon;

I am a jack-o’-lantern

With terrible teeth

And the children know

I am fooling.