POETRY,
GHOSTS.
When purple on the hill Struggles the dwarf thistle—. A hand that grips below
Forbids its stem to grow—
From the spear thistle's crown Shakes loose the thistle-down.
Silver against blue sky These ghosts of day float by, Fitful, irregular, Each one a silk-haired star Blown by the wind at will O'er the flower-nodding hill.
Vaguely like butterflies Flowerwards they fall and rise, Till by a trammelling bush Caught on their onward rush • And from the wind's aid freed They settle on their seed.
Not by the famished light Of a moon-ridden night But by clear sunny hours Go these white ghosts of flowers, Taking from the glad earth Their burial and their birth.
A. J. You?-O.