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1779–1852

THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE.

Thomas Moore

There's something strange, I know not what, Come o'er me, Some phantom I've for ever got Before me.

I look on high and in the sky ‘ Tis shining; On earth, its light with all things bright Seems twining.

In vain I try this goblin's spells To sever; Go where I will, it round me dwells For ever.

And then what tricks by day and night It plays me; In every shape the wicked sprite Waylays me.

Sometimes like two bright eyes of blue ‘ Tis glancing; Sometimes like feet, in slippers neat, Comes dancing.

By whispers round of every sort I'm taunted. Never was mortal man, in short, So haunted.

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THERE'S SOMETHING STRANGE. · Thomas Moore · Poetry Cove