POETRY.
THE GHOST.
NIGHT-FOUNDERED to the ruin he came,
Nor reeked of its uncanny fame ; A haunt of slumber opened here, And weariness, that casts out fear, His footsteps led.
The moon swam low ; the woods were still ; Dog foxes barked upon the hill ; With zig-zag wing a flitter-mouse Flew in and out the haunted house And overhead.
Within, decaying wood and lime Lifted their incense up to time ; The foot fell hollow ; echoes woke And whispering, half-heard voices spoke Behind the dark.
Aloft, the drowsy wanderer found A chamber far above the ground ; Whose casement, rusty-ironed and high, Gaped ivy-clad upon the sky, Starlit and stark.
White-fingered now the moonbeams ran To ripple on the resting man. He saw their stealthy silver creep As it would drown him in his sleep With splendour mild.
And then a subtle shadow moved, A spirit that the dead had loved ; For wanly limned against the gloom Of that forbid, forgotten room There ran a child.
She twinkled in her candid shift, Light as a moth, so silent, swift, And peeped and peered for what might be Hid in that ancient nursery- A babe of joy.
But something called the busy Wight : She faded sudden from his sight ; And, as her little glimmer paled, Like a glass bell, the ghostling wailed, " Where is my toy t "
EDEN PinitzeosTsi
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