The White Horse Tavern, located at 567 Hudson Street and West 11th Street, in the Greenwich Village neighborhood of New York City, does not look too eerie, does it?
It is, in fact, a pleasant place to stop and have a quick burger and a brew, but it is also well known as being haunted!
Let's go inside, shall we?
Inside the first room of the tavern there is a large, well stocked bar. There was lots of convivial conversation going on in this crowded room, although it was a little loud, as large screen TVs were blaring a football game.
How could it be that such a raucous place could harbor a ghost?
Even the little white horse memorabilia decorating all the nooks and crannies of the tavern looked so innocuous, almost cheerful.
Now let's walk into the middle room. Ah! This is the spot the ghost haunts!
Here is the favorite little corner table where the poet
Dylan Thomas frequently sat during his visits to the tavern when he came to New York City. It was in this spot where, in 1953, he unfortunately drank himself into a stupor. He collapsed outside the tavern and was brought to the Chelsea Hotel, and later died on November 9, at St. Vincent's Hospital, at the young age of 39. There is a legend that his last words were: "I've just had eighteen straight whiskies, I think that's a record." His spirit is said to rotate this favorite corner table, as Thomas liked to do when he was alive.
Do not go gentle into that good night~ Dylan Thomas
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
My husband and I sat at the corner table and offered a toast to Dylan, not with whiskey but with Guinness. Were those glowing orbs reflected on the table Dylan's ghost eyes smiling in approval? I'd like to think so!
My post is part of Elizabeth of the The World Examining Works blog's first annual Halloween Party, and for more halloween themed blog posts join us at Theme Thursday.
