There came to us, Tuesday last, a man <br />of most peculiar visage. The Doctor, <br />to whom we turned for insight, muttered <br />of abominations, dismissed our questions. <br />And yet I did not hesitate to show the Gentleman <br />as far in the Cave as his leisure and his pocket <br />would allow. For, there, to the faltering <br />glow of a greaselamp or candle, throng <br />shadows far more monstrous than he. <br />These I do not fear. It is the women <br />on the tours that give me pause, delicate, <br />ghost-white, how, that night, I'm told, <br />they wake to find themselves in unfamiliar <br />beds, and lost, bewildered, call my name.<br /><br />Davis McCombs<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/visitations-2/
