I turned to the cloud-bedappled sky, To bare-shorn field and gleaming water; To frost-night herbage, and perishing flower; While the Robin haunted the yellow bower; With his faery plumage and jet-black eye, Like an unlaid ghost some scene of slaughter: All mournful was the sight.

How's your insomnia, Dominie?" "Insomnia," said I, "is a scientific quibble for unlaid memories.

Passing its closed gates daily, I was always sensible of a qualm of the spirit, a daunting prescience that the stilled mansion still harbored the ghost of an unlaid secret.