Chapter III: Part 3

Knights!--whose hearts are so stout, and whose arms are so strong, Learn,--to twist a wife's neck is decidedly wrong! If your servants offend you, or give themselves airs, Rebuke them--but mildly--don't kick them downstairs! To "Poor Richard's" homely old proverb attend, "If you want matters well managed, Go!--if not, Send!" A servant's too often a negligent elf! --If it's business of consequence, DO IT YOURSELF!

The state of society seldom requires People now to bring home with them unburied Friars, But they sometimes do bring home an inmate for life; Now--don't do that by proxy!--but choose your own wife! For think how annoying 'twould be, when you're wed, To find in your bed, On the pillow, instead Of the sweet face you look for--A SARACEN'S HEAD!

POMPEY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

'Twas twelve o'clock, not twelve at night,
But twelve o'clock at noon;
Because the sun was shining bright
And not the silver moon.
A proper time for friends to call,
Or pots, or penny-post;
When lo! as Phoebe sat at work,
She saw her Pompey's ghost!

Now when a female has a call
From people that are dead,
Like Paris ladies, she receives
Her visitors in bed.
But Pompey's spirit would not come
Like spirits that are white,
Because he was a Blackamoor,
And wouldn't show at night!

But of all unexpected things
That happen to us here,
The most unpleasant is a rise
In what is very dear.
So Phoebe screamed an awful scream
To prove the seaman's text,
That after black appearances,
White squalls will follow next.

"O Phoebe dear! Oh, Phoebe dear!
Don't go and scream or faint;
You think because I'm black, I am
The Devil, but I ain't!
Behind the heels of Lady Lambe
I walked while I had breath,
But that is past, and I am now
A-walking after death!

"No murder, though, I come to tell,
By base and bloody crime;
So, Phoebe dear, put off your fits
To some more fitting time.
No coroner, like a boatswain's mate,
My body need attack,
With his round dozen to find out
Why I have died so black.

"One Sunday, shortly after tea,
My skin began to burn,
As if I had in my inside
A heater like a urn.
Delirious in the night I grew,
And as I lay in bed,
They say I gathered all the wool
You see upon my head.

"His lordship for his doctor sent,
My treatment to begin;
I wish that he had called him out
Before he called him in!
For though to physic he was bred,
And passed at Surgeons' Hall,
To make his post a sinecure,
He never cured at all!

"The Doctor looked about my breast
And then about my back,
And then he shook his head and said,
'Your case looks very black.'
At first he sent me hot cayenne,
And then gamboge to swallow.
But still my fever would not turn
To scarlet or to yellow!

"With madder and with turmeric,
He made his next attack;
But neither he nor all his drugs
Could stop my dying black.
At last I got so sick of life,
And sick of being dosed,
One Monday morning I gave up
My physic and the ghost!

"Oh, Phoebe dear, what pain it was
To sever every tie!
You know black beetles feel as much
As giants when they die.
And if there is a bridal bed,
Or bride of little worth,
It's lying in a bed of mould,
Along with Mother Earth.

"Alas! Some happy, happy day,
In church I hoped to stand,
And like a muff of sable skin
Receive your lily hand.
But sternly with that piebald match,
My fate untimely clashes;
For now, like Pompey-double-i,
I'm sleeping in my ashes!

"And now farewell! a last farewell!
I'm wanted down below,
And have but time enough to add
One word before I go--
In mourning crêpe and bombazine
Ne'er spend your precious pelf;
Don't go in black for me--for I
Can do it for myself.

"Henceforth within my grave I rest,
But Death, who there inherits,
Allowed my spirit leave to come,
You seemed so near your spirits:
But do not sigh, and do not cry,
By grief too much engrossed,
Nor for a ghost of color turn
The color of a ghost!

"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear!
Once more a last adieu!
For I must make myself as scarce
As swans of sable hue."
From black to gray, from gray to nought
The shape began to fade--
And like an egg, though not so white,
The ghost was newly laid!"

THE GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

_A Very Serious Ballad_

In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out--
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn
At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax;
And wished, like Mr. Wilberforce,
To _manumit_ her blacks.

With Mr. Street she soon was sweet;
The thing came thus about:
She asked him in at home, and then
At church, he asked her out!

Assurance such as this the man
In ashes could not stand;
So like a Phoenix he rose up
Against the Hand in Hand!

One dreary night the angry sprite
Appeared before her view;
It came a little after one,
But she was after two!

"Oh, Mrs. B., O Mrs. B.,
Are these your sorrow's deeds,
Already getting up a flame
To burn your widows' weeds?

"It's not so long since I have left
For aye the mortal scene;
My memory--like Rogers's--
Should still be bound in green!

"Yet if my face you still retrace
I almost have a doubt--
I'm like an old Forget-Me-Not
With all the leaves torn out!

"To think that on that finger-joint
Another pledge should cling;
O Bess! upon my very soul
It struck like 'Knock and Ring.'

"A ton of marble on my breast
Can't hinder my return;
Your conduct, ma'am, has set my blood
A-boiling in its urn!

"Remember, oh, remember how
The marriage rite did run,--
If ever we one flesh should be
'Tis now--when I have none!

"And you, Sir--once a bosom friend--
Of perjured faith convict,
As ghostly toe can give no blow,
Consider yourself kicked.

"A hollow voice is all I have,
But this I tell you plain,
Marry come up! you marry, ma'am,
And I'll come up again."

More he had said, but chanticleer
The spritely shade did shock
With sudden crow--and off he went
Like fowling piece at cock!

MARY'S GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

_A Pathetic Ballad_

'Twas in the middle of the night,
To sleep young William tried,
When Mary's ghost came stealing in,
And stood at his bedside.

"O William dear! O William dear!
My rest eternal ceases;
Alas! my everlasting peace
Is broken into pieces.

"I thought the last of all my cares
Would end with my last minute;
But though I went to my long home
I didn't stay long in it.

"The body-snatchers they have come
And made a snatch at me;
It's very hard them kind of men
Won't let a body be!

"You thought that I was buried deep,
Quite decent-like and chary,
But from her grave, in Mary-Bone,
They've come and boned your Mary.

"The arm that used to take your arm
Is took to Doctor Vyse;
And both my legs are gone to walk
The hospital at Guy's.

"I vowed that you should have my hand,
But Fate gives us denial;
You'll find it there, at Doctor Bell's,
In spirits and a phial.

"As for my feet, the little feet
You used to find so pretty,
There's one, I know, in Bedford Row,
The T'other's in the City.

"I can't tell where my head is gone,
But Doctor Carpue can;
As for my trunk, it's all packed up
To go by Pickford's van.

"I wish you'd go to Mr. P.,
And save me such a ride;
I don't half like the outside place
They've took for my inside.

"The cock it crows--I must be gone!
My William, we must part!
But I'll be yours in death, altho'
Sir Astley has my heart.

"Don't go to weep upon my grave,
And think that there I be;
They haven't left an atom there
Of my anatomie."

THE SUPERSTITIOUS GHOST: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

I'm such a quiet little ghost,
Demure and inoffensive,
The other spirits say I'm most
Absurdly apprehensive.

Through all the merry hours of night
I'm uniformly cheerful;
I love the dark; but in the light,
I own I'm rather fearful.

Each dawn I cower down in bed,
In every brightness seeing
That weird uncanny form of dread--
An awful Human Being!

Of course I'm told they can't exist,
That Nature would not let them:
But Willy Spook, the Humanist,
Declares that he has met them!

He says they do not glide like us,
But walk in eerie paces;
They're solid, not diaphanous,
With arms! and legs!! and faces!!!

And some are beggars, some are kings,
Some have and some are wanting,
They squander time in doing things,
Instead of simply haunting.

They talk of "art," the horrid crew,
And things they call "ambitions."--
Oh, yes, I know as well as you
They're only superstitions.

But should the dreadful day arrive
When, starting up, I see one,
I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive;
And then--Oh, then I'll be one!

DAVE LILLY: JOYCE KILMER

There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out. I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.

There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North
Adams road,
And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors
reaped and sowed.
He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I
think.
And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and
drink.

Well, Dave is dead and buried and nobody cares very
much;
They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers
and such,
But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you
could wish,
He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly
could fish.

The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down. I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white, And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.

And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could
feel
The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum
of a reel.
And the water was churned and broken, and something
was brought to land
By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and
shadowy hand.

I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout. But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.

It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook. But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.

I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by. I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it--but this will be better for Dave.

MARTIN: JOYCE KILMER

When I am tired of earnest men,
Intense and keen and sharp and clever,
Pursuing fame with brush or pen,
Or counting metal disks forever,
Then from the halls of Shadowland,
Beyond the trackless purple sea,
Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand
Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face
A quizzical thin smile is showing,
His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace,
His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.
He wears a brilliant-hued cravat,
A suit to match his soft grey hair,
A rakish stick, a knowing hat,
A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew
That being lovely was a duty,
Should have gold halls to wander through
And should himself inhabit beauty.
How like his old unselfish way
To leave those halls of splendid mirth
And comfort those condemned to stay
Upon the dull and sombre earth.

Some people ask: "What cruel chance
Made Martin's life so sad a story?"
Martin? Why, he exhaled romance,
And wore an overcoat of glory.
A fleck of sunlight in the street,
A horse, a book, a girl who smiled,
Such visions made each moment sweet
For this receptive ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot
To be, not make, a decoration,
Shall we then scorn him, having not
His genius of appreciation?
Rich joy and love he got and gave;
His heart was merry as his dress;
Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave
Who did not gain, but was, success!

HAUNTED PLACES

THE LISTENERS: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller,
Knocking on the moonlit door;
And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
Of the forest's ferny floor:
And a bird flew up out of the turret,
Above the Traveller's head:
And he smote upon the door again the second time;
"Is there anybody there?" he said.
But no one descended to the Traveller;
No head from the leaf-fringed sill
Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes,
Where he stood perplexed and still.
But only the host of phantom listeners
That dwelt in the lone house then
Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
To that voice from the world of men:
Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair,
That goes down to the empty hall,
Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
By the lonely Traveller's call:
And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
Their stillness answering his cry,
While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
'Neath the starred and leafy sky.
For he suddenly smote upon the door, even
Louder, and lifted his head:--
"Tell them I came and no one answered,
That I kept my word," he said.
Never the least stir made the listeners,
Though every word he spake
Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
From the one man left awake:
Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
And the sound of iron on stone,
And how the silence surged softly backward,
When the plunging hoofs were gone.

HAUNTED HOUSES: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

All houses wherein men have lived and died
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors
The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,
With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair,
Along the passages they come and go,
Impalpable impressions on the air,
A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts
Invited; the illuminated hall
Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,
As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see
The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear;
He but perceives what is; while unto me
All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere
Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense
A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise
By opposite attractions and desires:
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,
And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar
Of earthly wants and aspirations high,
Come from the influence of an unseen star,
An undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light,
Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd
Into the realm of mystery and night--

So from the world of spirits there descends,
A bridge of light, connecting it with this,
O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,
Wander our thoughts above the dark abyss.

THE BELEAGUERED CITY: HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW

I have read in some old marvellous tale,
Some legend strange and vague,
That a midnight host of spectres pale
Beleaguered the walls of Prague.

Beside the Moldau's rushing stream,
With the wan moon overhead,
There stood, as in an awful dream,
The army of the dead.

White as a sea-fog, landward bound,
The spectral band was seen,
And with a sorrowful deep sound,
The river flowed between.

No other voice nor sound was there,
No drum nor sentry's pace,
The mist-like banners clasped the air
As clouds with clouds embrace.

And when the old cathedral bell
Proclaimed the morning prayer,
The white pavilions rose and fell
On the alarméd air.

Down the broad valley fast and far
The troubled army fled:
Up rose the glorious morning star,
The ghastly host was dead.

I have read in the marvellous heart of man,
That strange and mystic scroll,
That an army of phantoms vast and wan
Beleaguer the human soul.

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream,
In Fancy's misty light,
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam
Portentous through the night.

Upon its midnight battle-ground
The spectral camp is seen,
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound,
Flows the River of Life between.

No other voice nor sound is there,
In the army of the grave;
No other challenge breaks the air,
But the rushing of Life's wave.

And then the solemn and deep church-bell
Entreats the soul to pray,
The midnight phantoms feel the spell,
The shadows sweep away.

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar
The spectral camp is fled;
Faith shineth as a morning star,
Our ghastly fears are dead.

A NEWPORT ROMANCE: BRET HARTE

They say that she died of a broken heart
(I tell the tale as 'twas told to me);
But her spirit lives, and her soul is part
Of this sad old house by the sea.

Her lover was fickle and fine and French;
It was more than a hundred years ago
When he sailed away from her arms,--poor wench!--
With the Admiral Rochambeau.

I marvel much what periwigged phrase
Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker,
At what gold-laced speech of those modish days
She listened,--the mischief take her!

But she kept the posies of mignonette
That he gave; and ever as their bloom failed
And faded (though with her tears still wet)
Her youth with their own exhaled.

Till one night when the sea fog wrapped a shroud
Round spar and spire and tarn and tree,
Her soul went up on that lifted cloud
From this sad old house by the sea.

And ever since then, when the clock strikes two,
She walks unbidden from room to room,
And the air is filled as she passes through
With a subtle, sad perfume.

The delicate odor of mignonette,
The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet,
Is all that tells of her story; yet
Could she think of a sweeter way?

* * * * *

I sit in the sad old house to-night--
Myself a ghost from a farther sea;
And I trust that this Quaker woman might,
In courtesy, visit me.

For the laugh is fled from the porch and lawn,
And the bugle died from the fort on the hill,
And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone,
And the grand piano is still.

Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two;
And there is no sound in the sad old house,
But the long veranda dripping with dew,
And in the wainscot a mouse.

The light of my study-lamp streams out
From the library door, but has gone astray
In the depths of the darkened hall; small doubt
But the Quakeress knows the way.

Was it the trick of a sense o'erwrought
With outward watching and inward fret?
But I swear that the air just now was fraught
With the odor of mignonette!

I open the window and seem almost--
So still lies the ocean--to hear the beat
Of its great Gulf Artery off the coast,
And to bask in its tropic heat.

In my neighbor's windows the gas lights flare
As the dancers swing in a waltz from Strauss;
And I wonder now could I fit that air
To the song of this sad old house.

And no odor of mignonette there is,
But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn;
And maybe from causes as slight as this
The quaint old legend was born.

But the soul of that subtle sad perfume,
As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast
The mummy laid in his rocky tomb,
Awakens my buried past.

And I think of the passion that shook my youth,
Of its aimless loves and its idle pains,
And am thankful now for the certain truth
That only the sweet remains.

And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade,
And I see no face at my library door;
For now that the ghosts of my heart are laid,
She is viewless forevermore.

But whether she came as a faint perfume,
Or whether a spirit in stole of white,
I feel, as I pass from the darkened room,
She has been with my soul to-night.

A LEGEND: MAY KENDALL

Ay, an old story, yet it might
Have truth in it--who knows?
Of the heroine's breaking down one night
Just ere the curtain rose.

And suddenly, when fear and doubt
Had shaken every heart,
There stepped an unknown actress out,
To take the heroine's part.

But oh, the magic of her face,
And oh the songs she sung,
And oh the rapture of the place,
And oh the flowers they flung!

But she never stooped: they lay all night,
As when she turned away,
And left them--and the saddest light
Shone in her eyes of grey.

She gave a smile in glancing round,
And sighed, one fancied, then--
But never they knew where she was bound,
Or saw her face again,

But the old prompter, grey and frail, They heard him murmur low, "It only could be Meg Coverdale, Died thirty years ago,

"In that old part, who took the town;
And she was fair, as fair
As when they shut the coffin down
On the gleam of her golden hair;

"And it wasn't hard to understand
How a lass as fair as she
Could never rest in the Promised Land,
Where none but angels be."

A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

After all the house is dark,
And the last soft step is still,
And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow
Flickers on the window sill--

When the village lights are out,
And the watch-dogs all asleep,
And the misty silver radiance
Makes the shade look black and deep--

When, so silent is the night,
Not a dead leaf dares to fall,
And I only hear the death-watch
Ticking, ticking in the wall--

When no hidden mouse dares gnaw
At the silence dead and dumb,
And the very air seems waiting
For a Something that should come--

Suddenly, there stands my guest,
Whence he came I cannot see;
Not a door has swung before him,
Not a hand touched latch or key,

Not a rustle stirred the air;
Yet he stands there, brave and mute,
In his eyes a look of greeting,
In his hand an old-time flute.

Then, with all the courtly grace
Of the old Colonial school,
From the curtain-shadowed corner
Forth he draws a three-legged stool--

(Ah, it was not there before!
Search as closely as I may,
I can never, never find it
When I look for it by day!)

Places it beside my bed,
And while silently I gaze
Spell-bound by his mystic presence,
Seats himself thereon and plays.

Gracious, stately, grave and tall,
Always dressed from crown to toe
In the quaint elaborate fashion
Of a hundred years ago.

Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose;
Wears my midnight melodist,
Snowy ruffles in his bosom,
Snowy ruffles at his wrist.

Silver buckle at his knee,
Silver buckle on his shoe;
Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited
In a stiff old-fashioned queue.

If I stir he vanishes;
If I speak he flits away;
If I lie in utter silence,
He will sit for hours and play;

Play old wailing minor airs,
Melancholy, wild and slow,
Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens
Of a hundred years ago.

All in vain I wait to hear
Ghostly histories of wrong
Unconfessed and unforgiven,
Unavenged and suffered long;

Not a story does he tell,
Not a single word he says--
Only sits and gazes at me
Steadily, and plays and plays.

Who is he, my midnight guest?
Wherefore does he haunt me so;
Coming from the misty shadows
Of a hundred years ago?

HAUNTED: AMY LOWELL

See! He trails his toes Through the long streaks of moonlight, And the nails of his fingers glitter; They claw and flash among the tree-tops. His lips suck at my open window, And his breath creeps about my body And lies in pools under my knees. I can see his mouth sway and wobble, Sticking itself against the window-jambs, But the moonlight is bright on the floor, Without a shadow. Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest, And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.

THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD: WALTER DE LA MARE

Some one is always sitting there,
In the little green orchard;
Even when the sun is high
In noon's unclouded sky,
And faintly droning goes
The bee from rose to rose,
Some one in shadow is sitting there,
In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight's falling softly
On the little green orchard;
When the gray dew distils
And every flower cup fills;
When the last blackbird says,
"What--what!" and goes her way--ssh!
I have heard voices calling softly
In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there,
In the little green orchard;
Why, when the moon's been bright,
Shedding her lonesome light,
And moths like ghosties come,
And the horned snail leaves home:
I've stayed there, whispering and listening there,
In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there,
In the little green orchard;
Whether you paint or draw,
Dig, hammer, chop or saw,
When you are most alone,
All but the silence gone ...
Some one is waiting and watching there,
In the little green orchard.

FIREFLIES: LOUISE DRISCOLL

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies? Are you the old, old dead, Creeping through the long grass, To see the green leaves move And feel the light wind pass?

The larkspur in my garden
Is a sea of rose and blue,
The white moth is a ghost ship
Drifting through.

The shadows fall like lilacs
Raining from a garden sky,
Pollen laden bees go home,
Bird songs die.

The honeysuckle breaks a flask,
And a breeze, on pleasure bent,
Catches in her little hands
The sharp scent.

In the darkness and the dew
Come the little, flying flames,
Are they the forgotten dead,
Without names?

Did they love the leaves and wind,
Grass and gardens long ago
With a love that draws them home
Where things grow?

For an hour with green leaves,
Love immortal leaped to flame,
From the earth into the night
Old hearts came.

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies?

THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost
That in my garden walked;
The wall is high--higher than most--
And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that
Till after she was gone--
I knew her by the broad white hat,
All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet,
By her small hands that hung
In their lace mitts, austere and sweet,
Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay,
What she would do--and oh!
She looked as if she liked the way
I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favorite mint
With conscious garden grace,
She smiled and smiled--there was no hint
Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side
To let her slippers show,
And up the walk she went with pride,
The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new
And is of ivy bare
She paused--then opened and passed through
A gate that once was there.

HAUNTED: LOUIS UNTERMEYER

Between the moss and stone
The lonely lilies rise;
Wasted and overgrown
The tangled garden lies.
Weeds climb about the stoop
And clutch the crumbling walls;
The drowsy grasses droop--
The night wind falls.

The place is like a wood;
No sign is there to tell
Where rose and iris stood
That once she loved so well.
Where phlox and asters grew,
A leafless thornbush stands,
And shrubs that never knew
Her tender hands....

Over the broken fence
The moonbeams trail their shrouds;
Their tattered cerements
Cling to the gauzy clouds,
In ribbons frayed and thin--
And startled by the light
Silence shrinks deeper in
The depths of night.

Useless lie spades and rakes;
Rust's on the garden-tools.
Yet, where the moonlight makes
Nebulous silver pools
A ghostly shape is cast--
Something unseen has stirred....
Was it a breeze that passed?
Was it a bird?

Dead roses lift their heads
Out of a grassy tomb;
From ruined pansy-beds
A thousand pansies bloom.
The gate is opened wide--
The garden that has been
Now blossoms like a bride....
_Who entered in?_

GHOSTS: MADISON CAWEIN

Low, weed-climbed cliffs, o'er which at noon
The sea-mists swoon:
Wind-twisted pines, through which the crow
Goes winging slow:
Dim fields the sower never sows,
Or reaps or mows:
And near the sea a ghostly house of stone
Where all is old and lone.

A garden, falling in decay,
Where statues gray
Peer, broken, out of tangled weed
And thorny seed;
Satyr and Nymph, that once made love
By walk and grove:
And, near a fountain, shattered, green with mould,
A sundial, lichen-old.

Like some sad life bereft,
To musing left,
The house stands: love and youth
Both gone, in sooth:
But still it sits and dreams:
And round it seems
Some memory of the past, still young and fair,
Haunting each crumbling stair.

And suddenly one dimly sees,
Come through the trees,
A woman, like a wild moss-rose:
A man, who goes
Softly: and by the dial
They kiss a while:
Then drowsily the mists blow round them, wan,
And they like ghosts are gone.

THE THREE GHOSTS: THEODOSIA GARRISON

The three ghosts on the lonely road,
Spake each to one another,
"Whence came that stain upon your mouth
No lifted hand can cover?"
"From eating of forbidden fruit,
Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the sunless road,
Spake each to one another,
"Whence came that red burn on your foot
No dust or ash may cover?"
"I stamped a neighbor's hearth-flame out,
Brother, my brother."

The three ghosts on the windless road,
Spake each to one another,
"Whence came that blood upon thy hand
No other hand may cover?"
"From breaking of a woman's heart,
Brother, my brother."

"Yet on the earth, clean men we walked,
Glutton and thief and lover,
White flesh and fair, it hid our stains,
That no man might discover,"
Naked the soul goes up to God,
Brother, my brother.

"YOU KNOW THE OLD, WHILE I KNOW THE NEW"

AFTER DEATH: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept
And strewn with rushes; rosemary and may
Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,
Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.
He leaned above me, thinking that I slept
And could not hear him; but I heard him say,
"Poor child, poor child": and as he turned away
Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.
He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold
That hid my face, or take my hand in his,
Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:
He did not love me living; but once dead
He pitied me; and very sweet it is
To know he still is warm though I am cold.

THE PASSER-BY: EDITH M. THOMAS

Step lightly across the floor, And somewhat more tender be.

There were many that passed my door,
Many that sought after me.
I gave them the passing word--
Ah, why did I give thee more?
I gave thee what could not be heard,
What had not been given before;
The beat of my heart I gave....
And I give thee this flower on my grave.

My face in the flower thou mayst see. Step lightly across the floor.

AT HOME: CHRISTINA ROSSETTI

When I was dead, my spirit turned
To seek the much-frequented house.
I passed the door, and saw my friends
Feasting beneath green orange-boughs;
From hand to hand they pushed the wine,
They sucked the pulp of plum and peach;
They sang, they jested, and they laughed,
For each was loved of each.

I listened to their honest chat.
Said one, "To-morrow we shall be
Plod-plod along the featureless sands,
And coasting miles and miles of sea."
Said one, "Before the turn of tide
We will achieve the eyrie-seat."
Said one, "To-morrow shall be like
To-day, but much more sweet."

"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow," cried they one and all,
While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
I, only I had passed away:
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
No chill across the tablecloth;
I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad
To stay and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
I whom from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
That tarrieth but a day.

THE RETURN: MINNA IRVING

I pushed the tangled grass away
And lifted up the stone,
And flitted down the churchyard path
With grasses overgrown.
I halted at my mother's door
And shook the rusty catch--
"The wind is rising fast," she said,
"It rattles at the latch."

I crossed the street and paused again
Before my husband's house,
My baby sat upon his knee
As quiet as a mouse.
I pulled the muslin curtain by,
He rose the blinds to draw--
"I feel a draught upon my back,
The night is cold and raw."

I met a man who loved me well
In days ere I was wed,
He did not hear, he did not see,
So silently I fled.
But when I found my poor old dog,
Though blind and deaf was he,
And feeble with his many years,
He turned and followed me.

THE ROOM'S WIDTH: ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD

I think if I should cross the room,
Far as fear,
Should stand beside you like a thought--
Touch you, dear,

Like a fancy--to your sad heart
It would seem
That my vision passed and prayed you,
Or my dream.

Then you would look with lonely eyes--
Lift your head--
And you would stir and sigh, and say,
"She is dead."

Baffled by death and love, I lean
Through the gloom.
O Lord of life! Am I forbid
To cross the room?

HAUNTED: DON MARQUIS

A ghost is a freak of a sick man's brain?
Then why do you start and shiver so?
That's the sob and drip of a leaky drain?
But it sounds like another noise we know!
The heavy drops drummed red and slow,
The drops ran down as slow as fate--
Do ye hear them still?--it was long ago!--
But here in the shadows I wait, and wait!

Spirits there be that pass in peace;
Mine passed in a whirl of wrath and dole;
And the hour that your choking breath shall cease
I will get my grip on your naked soul--
Nor pity may stay nor prayer cajole--
I would drag ye whining from Hell's own gate:
To me, to me, ye must pay the toll!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

The dead they are dead, they are out of the way?
And the ghost is a whim of an ailing mind?
Then why did ye whiten with fear to-day
When ye heard a voice in the calling wind?
Why did ye falter and look behind?
At the creeping mists when the hour grew late?
Ye would see my face were ye stricken blind!
And here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

Drink and forget, make merry and boast,
But the boast rings false and the jest is thin--
In the hour that I meet you ghost to ghost,
Stripped of the flesh that you skulk within,
Stripped to the coward soul 'ware of its sin,
Ye shall learn, ye shall learn, whether dead men hate!
Ah, a weary time has the waiting been,
But here in the shadows I wait, I wait!

"MY LOVE THAT WAS SO TRUE"

ONE OUT-OF-DOORS: SARAH PIATT

A ghost--is he afraid to be a ghost? A ghost? It breaks my heart to think of it. Something that wavers in the moon, at most; Something that wanders: something that must flit From morning, from the bird's breath and the dew. Ah, if I knew,--ah, if I only knew!

Something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still! O yearning lips that our warm blood can flush, Follow it with your kisses, if you will; O beating heart, think of its helpless hush. Oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear Something that was so near, that was so dear!

No--no, he is no ghost; he could not be; Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier; Something shut outside in the dark, while we Laugh and forget by the familiar fire; Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS: JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sail unfurl'd;
I said, "I will sail to my love this night
At the other side of the world."
I stepp'd abroad,--we sail'd so fast,--
The sun shot up from the bourn;
But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
Did mourn and mourn and mourn.
O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white, white breast,
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dove mourn'd on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
Rose up to show me his place.
O last love! O first love!
My love with the true, true heart,
To think I have come to this your home,
And yet--we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet.
Methought he said, "In this far land,
O, is it thus we meet?
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place,--no part,--
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thy heart."
O fair dove! O fond dove!
Till night rose over the bourn,
The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
Did mourn and mourn and mourn.

BETRAYAL: ALINE KILMER

Four hundred times the glass had run
And seven times the moon had died
Since my lover rode in his silver mail
Away from his new-made bride.

A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond
And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea
When out of the mist my own true love
Came up and stood by me.

My heart leapt up that had been still,
My voice rang out that had been sad,
Till my sister left her busy wheel
To see what made me glad.

She saw my arms about his neck,
She saw my head upon his breast.
Oh, why did my sister hate me so
That she would not let me rest?

Loud then laughed my cruel sister,
False and fair of face was she,
"O that is never your own true love,
For he lies dead in a far countrie!"

I loosed the clasp of my clinging arms
And his shining face grew still and white;
My tears ran down like bitter rain
As I watched him fade from sight.

May the salt sea bury me in its waves,
May the mountains fall and cover my head,
Since I had not faith in my only love
When he came back from the dead.

THE TRUE LOVER: A.E. HOUSMAN

The lad came to the door at night,
When lovers crown their vows,
And whistled soft and out of sight
In shadow of the boughs.

"I shall not vex you with my face
Henceforth, my love, for aye;
So take me in your arms a space
Before the east is gray.

"When I from hence away am past
I shall not find a bride,
And you shall be the first and last
I ever lay beside."

She heard and went and knew not why;
Her heart to his she laid;
Light was the air beneath the sky
But dark under the shade.

"Oh, do you breathe, lad, that your breast
Seems not to rise and fall,
And here upon my bosom prest
There beats no heart at all?"

"Oh, loud, my girl, it once would knock,
You should have felt it then;
But since for you I stopped the clock
It never goes again."

"Oh, lad, what is it, lad, that drops
Wet from your neck on mine?
What is it falling on my lips,
My lad, that tastes like brine?"

"Oh like enough 'tis blood, my dear,
For when the knife has slit
The throat across from ear to ear
'Twill bleed because of it."

Under the stars the air was light
But dark below the boughs,
The still air of the speechless night,
When lovers crown their vows.

HAUNTED: G.B. STUART

When candle-flames burn blue, Between the night and morning, I know that it is you, My love, that was so true, And that I killed with scorning.

The watch-dogs howl and bay; I pale, and leave off smiling. Only the other day I held your heart in play Intent upon beguiling.

A little while ago I wrung your soul with sighing, Or brought a sudden glow Into your cheek by low Soft answers, in replying.

My life was all disguise, A mask of feints and fancies; I used to lift my eyes, And take you by surprise With smiles and upward glances.

And now, where'er I go, Your sad ghost follows after; And blue the flame burns low, And doors creak to and fro, And silent grows the laughter.

THE WHITE MOTH: SIR ARTHUR QUILLER-COUCH

If a leaf rustled she would start:
And yet she died, a year ago.
How had so frail a thing the heart
To journey where she trembled so?
And do they turn and turn in fright,
Those little feet, in so much night?

The light above the poet's head
Streamed on the page and on the cloth,
And twice and thrice there buffeted
On the black pane a white-winged moth:
'Twas Annie's soul that beat outside,
And, "Open, open, open!" cried.

"I could not find the way to God;
There were too many flaming suns
For signposts, and the fearful road
Led over wastes where millions
Of flaming comets hissed and burned--
I was bewildered and I turned.

"O, it was easy then! I knew Your window, and no star beside. Look up and take me back to you!" He rose and thrust the window wide. 'Twas but because his brain was hot With rhyming; for he saw her not.

But poets polishing a phrase Show anger over trivial things: And as she blundered in the blaze Towards him, on ecstatic wings, He raised a hand and smote her dead; Then wrote, "That I had died instead!"

THE GHOST: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Who knocks?" "I, who was beautiful, Beyond all dreams to restore, I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither, And knock on the door."

"Who speaks?" "I,--once was my speech Sweet as the bird's on the air. When echo lurks by the waters to heed; 'Tis I speak thee fair."

"Dark is the hour!" "Aye, and cold." "Lone is my house." "Ah, but mine?" "Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearn in vain." "Long dead these to thine...."

Silence. Still faint on the porch Brake the flames of the stars. In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand Over keys, bolts and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night In chaos of vacancy shone; Nought but vast Sorrow was there-- The sweet cheat gone.

LUKE HAVERGAL: EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal,-- There where the vines cling crimson on the wall,-- And in the twilight wait for what will come. The wind will moan, the leaves will whisper some,-- Whisper of her, and strike you as they fall; But go, and if you trust her she will call. Go to the western gate, Luke Havergal-- Luke Havergal.

No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies To rift the fiery night that's in your eyes; But there where western glooms are gathering, The dark will end the dark, if anything: God slays Himself with every leaf that flies, And hell is more than half of paradise. No, there is not a dawn in eastern skies-- In eastern skies.

Out of the grave I come to tell you this,-- Out of the grave I come to quench the kiss That flames upon your forehead with a glow That blinds you to the way that you must go. Yes, there is yet one way to where she is,-- Bitter, but one that faith can never miss. Out of the grave I come to tell you this, To tell you this.

There is the western gate, Luke Havergal, There are the crimson leaves upon the wall. Go,--for the winds are tearing them away,-- Nor think to riddle the dead words that they say, Nor any more to feel them as they fall; But go! and if you trust her she will call. There is the western gate, Luke Havergal-- Luke Havergal.

THE HIGHWAYMAN: ALFRED NOYES

1

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees, The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas, The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor, And the highwayman came riding-- Riding--riding-- The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

2

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin, A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin; They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh! And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, His pistol butts a-twinkle, His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

3

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard, And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred; He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there But the landlord's black-eyed daughter, Bess, the landlord's daughter, Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

4

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked Where Tim, the ostler, listened; his face was white and peaked; His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay, But he loved the landlord's daughter; The landlord's red-lipped daughter, Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say--

5

"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight, But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day, Then look for me by moonlight, Watch for me by moonlight, I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

6

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand, But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast; And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, (Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight,) Then he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

PART TWO

1

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon; And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon, When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor, A red-coat troop came marching-- Marching--marching-- King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

2

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead, But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed; Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side! There was death at every window; And Hell at one dark window; For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that _he_ would ride.

3

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest; They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast! "Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-- _Look for me by moonlight;_ _Watch for me by moonlight;_ _I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!_

4

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood! They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years, Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, Cold, on the stroke of midnight, The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

5

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest! Up, she stood to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast, She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again; For the road lay bare in the moonlight; Blank and bare in the moonlight; And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain.

6

_Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!_ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear-- _Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot_ in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, The highwayman came riding, Riding, riding! The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still!

7

_Tlot-tlot_, in the frosty silence! _Tlot-tlot_ in the echoing night! Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light! Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath, Then her finger moved in the moonlight, Her musket shattered the moonlight, Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him--with her death.

8

He turned; he spurred him Westward; he did not know who stood Bowed with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood! Not till the dawn he heard it, and slowly blanched to hear How Bess, the landlord's daughter, The landlord's black-eyed daughter, Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

9

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, With the white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high! Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden moon; wine-red was his velvet coat; When they shot him down on the highway, Down like a dog on the highway, And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

* * * * *

_And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_ _When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,_ _When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_ _A highwayman comes riding--_ _Riding--riding--_ _A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

10

_Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;_ _And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;_ _He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there_ _But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,_ _Bess, the landlord's daughter,_ _Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair._

THE BLUE CLOSET: WILLIAM MORRIS

THE DAMOZELS

Lady Alice, Lady Louise, Between the wash of the tumbling seas We are ready to sing, if so you please; So lay your long hands on the keys; Sing "_Laudate pueri._"

_And ever the great bell overhead_ _Boom'd in the wind a knell for the dead,_ _Though no one toll'd it, a knell for the dead._

LADY LOUISE

Sister, let the measure swell Not too loud; for you sing not well If you drown the faint boom of the bell; He is weary, so am I.

_And ever the chevron overhead_ _Flapp'd on the banner of the dead;_ (_Was he asleep, or was he dead?_)

LADY ALICE