Chapter I
INTRODUCTION
The twelvemonth and a day being up
   The dead began to speak:
'Oh who sits weeping on my grave
   And will not let me sleep?'
 
' 'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave
   And will not let you sleep:
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
   And that is all I seek.'
 
A critic is a haunter of unquiet graves.