Upon their brooms, across the moon,
the figures darting out of sight.
A practice run. Time's growing soon
to fly away one hallowed Night.
Their pointy hats, their dear black cats,
their cursed, green goblin skin,
their eye of newt or wing of bat
their cackles and stretched grins—
The terrors of the dreaming mind
make goodmen quake in dreams;
a coven they can never find,
they wake to find in all, it seems.
Dreams of Mr. Goodman Brown
Tale Told 