I see the European headsman,
He stands mask’d, clothed in red, with huge legs and strong naked
arms,
And leans on a ponderous axe.

(Whom have you slaughter’d lately European headsman?
Whose is that blood upon you so wet and sticky?)

I see the clear sunsets of the martyrs,
I see from the scaffolds the descending ghosts,
Ghosts of dead lords, uncrown’d ladies, impeach’d ministers,
rejected kings,
Rivals, traitors, poisoners, disgraced chieftains and the rest.

Or (a little less gruesome) from “The Sleepers”:

I am the ever-laughing—it is new moon and twilight,
I see the hiding of douceurs, I see nimble ghosts whichever way
I look,
Cache and cache again deep in the ground and sea, and where it
is neither ground nor sea.