To stand upon that footing: 
At other times, his frightened hairs 199
  Above the bedclothes trusting,
He heard her, full of household cares,
(No dream entrapped in supper’s snares,
The foal of horrible nightmares,
But broad awake, as he declares),
Go bustling up and down the stairs,
Or setting back last evening’s chairs,
  Or with the poker thrusting
The raked-up sea-coal’s hardened crust—­
And—­what! impossible! it must! 
He knew she had returned to dust, 210
And yet could scarce his senses trust,
Hearing her as she poked and fussed
  About the parlor, dusting!

Night after night he strove to sleep
  And take his ease in spite of it;
But still his flesh would chill and creep,
And, though two night-lamps he might keep,
  He could not so make light of it. 
At last, quite desperate, he goes
And tells his neighbors all his woes, 220
  Which did but their amount enhance;
They made such mockery of his fears
That soon his days were of all jeers. 
  His nights of the rueful countenance;
‘I thought most folks,’ one neighbor said,
‘Gave up the ghost when they were dead?’
Another gravely shook his head,
  Adding, ’From all we hear, it’s
Quite plain poor Knott is going mad—­
For how can he at once be sad 230
  And think he’s full of spirits?’
A third declared he knew a knife
  Would cut this Knott much quicker,
’The surest way to end all strife,
And lay the spirit of a wife,
  Is just to take and lick her!’
A temperance man caught up the word,
‘Ah yes,’ he groaned, ’I’ve always heard
  Our poor friend somewhat slanted 239
Tow’rd taking liquor overmuch;
I fear these spirits may be Dutch,
(A sort of gins, or something such,)
  With which his house is haunted;
I see the thing as clear as light,—­
If Knott would give up getting tight,
  Naught farther would be wanted:’ 
So all his neighbors stood aloof
And, that the spirits ’neath his roof
Were not entirely up to proof,
  Unanimously granted. 250

Knott knew that cocks and sprites were foes,
And so bought up, Heaven only knows
How many, for he wanted crows
To give ghosts caws, as I suppose,
  To think that day was breaking;
Moreover what he called his park,
He turned into a kind of ark
For dogs, because a little bark
Is a good tonic in the dark,
  If one is given to waking; 260
But things went on from bad to worse,
His curs were nothing but a curse,
  And, what was still more shocking,
Foul ghosts of living fowl made scoff
And would not think of going off
  In spite of all his cocking.