Chapter XIV: Dream-Ghosts

White house of night, too much the ghosts come through Your crazy doors, to vex and startle me, Touching with curious fingers cold as dew Kissing with unloved kisses fierily That dwell, slow fever, through my veins all day, And fill my senses as the dead their graves. They are builded in my castles and bridges? Yea, Not therefore must my dreams become their slaves. If once we passed some kindness, must they still Sway me with weird returns and dim disgust?-- Though even in sleep the absolute bright Will Would exorcise them, saying, "These are but dust," They show sad symbols, that, when I awaken, I never can deny I have partaken.