Unmoved by what the wind does,
Are not rattled, nor do the various
Of the house make their usual racket --
The joints, trusses and studs.
They are still. And the maples,
At times to raise havoc,
Not a sound from their branches'
It's my night to be rattled,
With spooks. Even the half-moon
Half dark), on the horizon,
Its side casting a fishy light
On my floor, lavishly lording
Look over me. Oh, I feel dead,
Away in my blankets for good, and
My room is clammy and cold,
And weird. The shivers
Me, shaking my bones, my loose ends
And I lie sleeping with one eye open,
That nothing, nothing will happen.