Hey there, horror hounds.
Today we’re stepping into the eerie and unsettling world of horror poetry. The haunting verses I have selected for your pleasure today have been crafted by some of the most famous poets, each weaving a tapestry of terror that lingers in the mind long after the final line. Join me, and we’ll embark on a sojourn into the shadowy corners of the literary world to explore the best short and scary poems ever written.
But before we immerse ourselves in these vampiric verses, let’s get to know the dark minds behind these sinister rhymes. Below, I present brief biographies of each poet, highlighting their contributions to literature and their unique forays into the macabre. So prepare yourself for a captivating blend of beauty and horror as we peruse the poems of these literary legends that feature the darker side of the human experience.
William Shakespeare (1564–1616)
William Shakespeare, often hailed as the greatest playwright and poet in the English language, was born in Stratford-upon-Avon, England. His works have transcended time, offering profound insights into the human condition. Shakespeare’s literary legacy includes 39 plays and 154 sonnets, exploring themes of love, ambition, and mortality. While Shakespeare is renowned for his comedies and romantic works, he sometimes delved into darker themes, particularly in his tragedies such as “Macbeth” and “Hamlet.” These works explore existential dread, madness, and the complexities of human nature, showcasing his ability to capture the more sinister aspects of life.
The Witches’ Chant from Macbeth
Round about the cauldron go:
In the poisons entrails throw.
Toad,that under cold stone
Days and nights has thirty-one
Sweated venom sleeping got,
Boil thou first in the charmed pot.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork and blindworm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg and howlet’s wing.
For charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witch’s mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d in the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew;
Gall of goat; and slips of yew
silver’d in the moon’s eclipse;
Nose of Turk, and Tartar’s lips;
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by the drab,-
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For ingredients of our cauldron.
Double, double toil and trouble,
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Robert Herrick (1591–1674)
Robert Herrick was an English poet and cleric born in London. He is best known for his collection “Hesperides,” which includes the famous poem “To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time.” Herrick’s poetry often reflects the themes of love, nature, and the passage of time, infused with a sense of carpe diem. However, Herrick sometimes wrote horror poems, revealing a preoccupation with mortality and the fleeting nature of life. His ability to contrast the beauty of existence with its inevitable impermanence adds a poignant depth to his work.
The Hag
The Hag is astride
This night for to ride,
The Devill and shee together;
Through thick and through thin,
Now out and then in,
Though ne’er so foul be the weather.
A Thorn or a Burr
She takes for a Spurre,
With a lash of a Bramble she rides now;
Through Brakes and through Briars,
O’er Ditches and Mires,
She follows the Spirit that guides now.
No Beast for his food
Dares now range the wood,
But hush’d in his laire he lies lurking;
While mischiefs, by these,
On Land and on Seas,
At noone of Night are a-working.
The storme will arise
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the Tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Call’d out by the clap of the Thunder.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772–1834)
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, born in Ottery St Mary, England, was a leading figure of the Romantic movement. His prose poems, characterized by their vivid imagery and innovative use of language, often explores the supernatural and the mysterious. Coleridge is best known for his poems “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and “Kubla Khan,” which feature dark and fantastical elements. His exploration of the mind’s depths and the uncanny reflects his interest in the human psyche’s more shadowy realms, making his poetry both compelling and haunting.
The following poem, ‘Christabel’, is a gothic masterpiece, but was never fully completed by Coleridge. Though long, I have inserted the following excerpt that nicely conveys the sinister atmosphere of the full poem.
Christabel (excerpt)
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.-
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady’s cheek-
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there? (end of the excerpt)
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788–1824)
Lord Byron was a British poet known for his flamboyant lifestyle and passionate, deeply introspective poetry. As a leading figure of the Romantic movement, Byron’s works often embody the theme of the Byronic hero—a brooding, rebellious character. Born in London, Byron’s significant works include “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” and “Don Juan.” His poetry sometimes delves into darker themes, encompassing complex emotions, existential struggles, and the tumultuous aspects of human nature. Byron’s ability to evoke powerful, often dark, emotions has solidified his place in literary history.
The Vampyre
But first, on earth as Vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race:
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet
By which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims, ere they yet expire,
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are wither’d on the stem…
Wet with thine own best blood shall drip
Thy gnashing tooth and haggard lip;
Then stalking to thy sullen grave,
Go–and with Gouls and Afrits rave;
Till these in horror shrink away
From spectre more accursed than they!
John Keats (1795–1821)
John Keats, born in London, was one of the most influential poets of the Romantic era, renowned for his vivid imagery and sensuous language. Despite his short life, Keats produced an impressive body of work, including “Ode to a Nightingale” and “To Autumn.” His poetry often contemplates beauty, love, and mortality, but he also delved into darker themes, pondering the ephemeral nature of life and the inevitability of death. Keats’s introspective and melancholic approach to poetry continues to resonate, offering profound insights into the human experience.
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
I.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.
II.
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone
The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done.
III.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a faery’s child:
Her hair was long, her foot was ligh, And her eyes were wild.
V.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
A faery’s song.
VI.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
“I love thee true!”
VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild, sad eyes So kissed to sleep.
IX. And there we slumbered on the moss, And there I dreamed, ah!
Woe betide, The latest dream I ever dreamed On the cold hill side.
X.
I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried “La belle Dame sans merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill side.
XII.
And that is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
Percy Bysshe Shelley was a prominent English Romantic poet known for his radical and visionary works. Born into a wealthy Sussex family, he was educated at Eton College and later at Oxford University, although he was expelled for his pamphlet “The Necessity of Atheism.” Shelley’s poetry often reflected his advocacy for social reform, political justice, and personal liberty. Works such as “Ozymandias” and “The Masque of Anarchy” showcase his idealism and lyrical prowess. Shelley sometimes wrote dark poetry, exploring themes of loss, alienation, and the ephemeral nature of human life. His untimely death came at the age of 29 when he drowned in a sailing accident in Italy.
Dark Spirit Of Desart Rude
Dark Spirit of the desart rude
That o’er this awful solitude,
Each tangled and untrodden wood,
Each dark and silent glen below,
Where sunlight’s gleamings never glow,
Whilst jetty, musical and still,
In darkness speeds the mountain rill;
That o’er yon broken peaks sublime,
Wild shapes that mock the scythe of time,
And the pure Ellan’s foamy course,
Wavest thy wand of magic force;
Art thou yon sooty and fearful fowl
That flaps its wing o’er the leafless oak
That o’er the dismal scene doth scowl
And mocketh music with its croak?
I’ve sought thee where day’s beams decay
On the peak of the lonely hill,
I’ve sought thee where they melt away
By the wave of the pebbly rill;
I’ve strained to catch thy murky form
Bestride the rapid and gloomy storm;
Thy red and sullen eyeball’s glare
Has shot, in a dream, thro’ the midnight air
But never did thy shape express
Such an emphatic gloominess.
And where art thou, O thing of gloom?
On Nature’s unreviving tomb
Where sapless, blasted and alone
She mourns her blooming centuries gone!
From the fresh sod the Violets peep,
The buds have burst their frozen sleep,
Whilst every green and peopled tree
Is alive with Earth’s sweet melody.
But thou alone art here,
Thou desolate Oak, whose scathed head
For ages has never trembled,
Whose giant trunk dead lichens bind
Moaningly sighing in the wind,
With huge loose rocks beneath thee spread,
Thou, Thou alone art here!
Remote from every living thing,
Tree, shrub or grass or flower,
Thou seemest of this spot the King
And with a regal power
Suck like that race all sap away
And yet upon the spoil decay.
Edgar Allan Poe (1809–1849)
Edgar Allan Poe was an American writer best known for his macabre short fiction and spooky tales, as well as his pioneering work in the detective fiction genre. He was, however, a master of horror and horror stories, and not averse to writing excellent horror poetry on occasion. Born in Boston, he faced a troubled life marked by financial struggles and personal losses. His darkest works, including his narrative poem “The Raven” and his short stories “The Black Cat” and “The Tell-Tale Heart,” focus on themes of madness, death, and the supernatural. Despite his success as a literary critic and editor, Poe’s life was overshadowed by poverty and personal strife. He died under mysterious circumstances at the age of 40, leaving behind a legacy as one of the most influential figures in American literature.
The Haunted Palace
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought’s dominion,
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor went away.
Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically
To a lute’s well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene!
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him, desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
Charles Baudelaire (1821–1867)
Charles Baudelaire was a French poet whose work is considered a cornerstone of modernist literature. Born in Paris, Baudelaire lived a turbulent life, struggling with financial issues and personal vices. His seminal work, “Les Fleurs du mal” (“The Flowers of Evil”), shocked society with its exploration of decadence, eroticism, and existential despair. Baudelaire sometimes wrote dark poetry that challenged traditional moral values, reflecting themes of beauty interwoven with corruption and decay. His innovative use of symbolism and musicality influenced countless poets and artists who followed. Baudelaire’s health deteriorated, leading to his premature death at 46.
The Vampire
You invaded my sorrowful heart
Like the sudden stroke of a blade;
Bold as a lunatic troupe
Of demons in drunken parade,
You in my mortified soul
Made your bed and your domain;
Abhorrence, to whom I’m bound
As the convict is to the chain,
As the drunkard is to the jug,
As the gambler to the game,
As to the vermin the corpse,
I damn you, out of my shame!
And I prayed to the eager sword
To win my deliverance,
And have asked the perfidious vial
To redeem my cowardice.
Alas! The vial and the sword
Disdainfully said to me;
“You are not worthy to lift
From your wretched slavery,
You fool! If from her command
Our efforts delivered you forth,
Your kisses would waken again
Your vampire lover’s corpse!”
Christina Rossetti (1830–1894)
Christina Rossetti was a significant English poet known for her deeply religious and introspective works. Born in London into a family of Italian and English heritage, she was the sister of artist and poet Dante Gabriel Rossetti. Her poetry often touched on themes of faith, love, and mortality, with notable works including “Goblin Market” and “Remember.” Rossetti sometimes wrote dark poetry that explored the complexities of human emotion and the inevitability of death. Living a relatively reclusive life, she devoted herself to her family and faith. Rossetti’s literary contributions remain influential, celebrated for their lyrical beauty and emotional depth.
After Death
The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say:
’Poor child, poor child:’ and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.
Robert Browning (1812–1889)
Robert Browning was an English poet and playwright known for his mastery of dramatic monologues and psychological portraiture. Born in London, Browning was largely self-educated and began writing at an early age. His early career was overshadowed by critical misunderstanding, but he achieved recognition with works like “Men and Women” and “The Ring and the Book.” Browning sometimes wrote dark poetry that delved into the complexities of the human psyche, often portraying intense emotions and moral dilemmas. Despite his initial struggles, Browning’s later years were marked by widespread acclaim, and he remains a towering figure in Victorian literature.
Bad Dreams
This was my dream: I saw a Forest
Old as the earth, no track nor trace
Of unmade man.
Thou, Soul, explorest–
Though in a trembling rapture—space Immeasurable!
Shrubs, turned trees,
Trees that touch heaven, support its frieze
Studded with sun and moon and star:
While– oh, the enormous growths that bar
Mine eye from penetrating past
Their tangled twine where lurks– nay, lives
Royally lone, some brute-type cast
The rough, time cancels, man forgives.
On, Soul! I saw a lucid City
Of architectural device Every way perfect.
Pause for pity, Lightning! Nor leave a cicatrice
On those bright marbles, dome and spire,
Structures palatial—streets which mire
Dares not defile, paved all too fine
For human footstep’s smirch, not thine–
Proud solitary traverser,
My Soul, of silent lengths of way–
With what ecstatic dread, aver,
Lest life start sanctioned by the stay!
Ah, but the last sight was the hideous!
A City, yes,—a Forest, true,—
But each devouring each.
Perfidious Snake-plants had strangled what I knew
Was a pavilion once: each oak
Held on his horns some spoil he broke
By surreptitiously beneath
Upthrusting: pavements, as with teeth,
Griped huge weed widening crack and split
In squares and circles stone-work erst.
Oh, Nature—good!
Oh, Art—no whit
Less worthy!
Both in one– accurst!
Thomas Hardy (1840–1928)
Thomas Hardy was an English novelist and poet whose works often delve into themes of fate, despair, and existential dread. Born in Dorset, England, Hardy initially gained fame for his novels, such as “Tess of the d’Urbervilles” and “Far from the Madding Crowd.” Later in life, he turned primarily to poetry, where he expressed his bleak worldview and skepticism about human progress and the indifference of the universe. Hardy’s poetry, including collections like “Wessex Poems” and “Poems of the Past and the Present,” frequently features a somber tone and a preoccupation with mortality and human suffering.
Ah, Are You Digging on my Grave
Ah, are you digging on my grave
My loved one? Planting rue?”
“No; yesterday he went to wed
One of the brightest wealth has bred.
‘It cannot hurt her now,’ he said,
That I ‘should not be true.'”
Then who is digging on my grave?
My nearest dearest kin?”
“Ah, no; they sit and think, ‘What use!
What good will planting flowers produce?
No tendance of her mound can loose
Her spirit from Death’s gin.'”
But someone digs upon my grave?
My enemy? prodding sly?”
“Nay; when she heard you had passed the Gate
That shuts on all flesh soon or late,
She thought you no more worth her hate,
And cares not where you lie.”
Then, who is digging on my grave?
Say since I have not guessed!”
“Oh, it is I, my mistress dear,
Your little dog, who still lives near,
And much I hope my movements here
Have not disturbed your rest?”
Ah, yes! You dig upon my grave . . .
Why flashed it not on me
That one true heart was left behind!
What feeling do we ever find
To equal among humankind
A dog’s fidelity!”
Mistress, I dug upon your grave
To bury a bone, in case
I should be hungry near this spot
When passing on my daily trot.
I am sorry, but I quite forgot
It was your resting-place.”
Emily Dickinson (1830–1886)
Emily Dickinson was an American poet renowned for her reclusive lifestyle and innovative, introspective, and eerie poems. Born in Amherst, Massachusetts, Dickinson spent much of her life in isolation, which allowed her a unique perspective on the human condition. Her poetry, often characterized by its stark brevity and unconventional punctuation, frequently explores themes of death, immortality, and the macabre. With poems like “Because I could not stop for Death” and “I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,” Dickinson delves deep into the darker aspects of the psyche, blending beauty with existential inquiry.
I Heard a Fly Buzz, When I Died
I heard a fly buzz when I died;
The stillness round my form
Was like the stillness in the air
Between the heaves of storm.
The eyes beside had wrung them dry,
And breaths were gathering sure
For that last onset, when the king
Be witnessed in his power.
I willed my keepsakes, signed away
What portion of me I
Could make assignable—and then
There interposed a fly,
With blue, uncertain, stumbling buzz, Between the light and me;
And then the windows failed, and then
I could not see to see.
W.B. Yeats (1865–1939)
William Butler Yeats was an Irish poet and one of the foremost figures of 20th-century literature. Born in Dublin, Yeats was deeply involved in the Irish literary revival and the quest for national identity. His early works reflect a fascination with Irish mythology and folklore, but his later poetry increasingly embraced modernist themes and a dark, introspective vision. Yeats’ works, such as “The Second Coming” and “Sailing to Byzantium,” often grapple with themes of chaos, political upheaval, and the decline of civilization, infused with his characteristic symbolic and mystic elements.
Death
Nor dread nor hope attend
A dying animal;
A man awaits his end
Dreading and hoping all;
Many times he died,
Many times rose again.
A great man in his pride
Confronting murderous men
Casts derision upon
Supersession of breath;
He knows death to the bone—
Man has created death.
Robert Frost (1874–1963)
Robert Frost was an influential American poet known for his depictions of rural New England life and exploration of complex social and philosophical themes within deceptively simple verse. Born in San Francisco, he moved to Massachusetts at the age of eleven following his father’s death. Frost attended Dartmouth College and Harvard University but did not complete a degree at either. He worked various jobs before moving to England, where he published his first two poetry collections, “A Boy’s Will” and “North of Boston,” which garnered critical acclaim. Returning to the United States, Frost continued writing and teaching, eventually winning four Pulitzer Prizes for Poetry. While celebrated for poems like “The Road Not Taken” and “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” he sometimes explored darker themes, delving into the human condition, isolation, and existential uncertainty.
Ghost House
I dwell in a lonely house I know
That vanished many a summer ago,
And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls,
And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.
O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield
The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse
Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed.
I dwell with a strangely aching heart
In that vanished abode there far apart
On that disused and forgotten road
That has no dust-bath now for the toad.
Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;
The whippoorwill is coming to shout
And hush and cluck and flutter about:
I hear him begin far enough away
Full many a time to say his say
Before he arrives to say it out.
It is under the small, dim, summer star.
I know not who these mute folk are
Who share the unlit place with me
Those stones out under the low-limbed tree
Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.
They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,
Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,
With none among them that ever sings,
And yet, in view of how many things,
As sweet companions as might be had.
Wilfred Owen (1893–1918)
Wilfred Owen was an English poet and soldier, renowned for his poignant war poetry that vividly depicted the horrors of World War I. Born in Oswestry, Shropshire, Owen spent his formative years in England and Wales, developing an early passion for poetry. He enlisted in the British Army in 1915, and his wartime experiences deepened his conviction of the futility and brutality of war. His poetry, characterized by its striking realism and use of vivid imagery and irony, remains some of the best-known English poetry of the war. His works, including “Anthem for Doomed Youth” and “Futility” powerfully convey the grim realities soldiers faced, often tinged with darker, haunting themes. Tragically, Owen was killed in action just a week before the war ended, but his legacy endures through his impactful body of work.
The following is probably one of Owen’s best-known poems (in addition to being one of his scariest poems, due to the visceral horrors of a Gas Attack it depicts).
Dulce Et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.
Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892–1950)
Edna St. Vincent Millay was a celebrated American poet and playwright, known for her lyrical verse and mastery of the sonnet form. Born in Rockland, Maine, she was raised by her mother in a household that struggled financially but was rich in artistic encouragement. Millay achieved fame with the publication of her first collection, “Renascence and Other Poems,” and further established her place in literary history with her modernist and feminist explorations in works like “A Few Figs from Thistles” and “The Harp-Weaver and Other Poems,” the latter winning her the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1923. Millay’s writing often touched on themes of love, freedom, and social justice, with some of her work exploring darker aspects of human experience, such as loss and despair. Her involvement in the bohemian culture of 1920s Greenwich Village further cemented her status as an icon of both literary and cultural rebellion.
Epitaph
Heap not on this mound
Roses that she loved so well;
Why bewilder her with roses,
That she cannot see or smell?
She is happy where she lies
With the dust upon her eyes.
I hope you enjoyed some of these spooky poems, horror readers. And if you feel like they weren’t enough and you crave more, check out LOD’s Horror Haiku posts, or give the following two collections a try. Both contain a wide selection of authors and poems:
Thanks for reading, and I’ll see you in your nightmares!
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