by 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.