GHOSTS

The sky is overcast,

The wind wails loud;

Grey ghosts go driving past

In driving cloud;

And, in the beating rain

Against the window-pane

Dead fingers beat again,

Dead faces crowd.

O, grey ghosts, waiting still,

My fire burns bright;

Without is cold and chill,

Here, warm and light.

And would you have me creep

Outside to you, and sweep

With you along the steep

Of the grey night?

Nay, once I held you dear,

Before you fled

Adown the shadowy, drear

Paths of the dead;

But now the churchyard mould

Has left you all too cold,

Your hands I cannot hold,

Your touch I dread.

Yet linger patiently,

Ghosts of the past,

Soon there shall come to me

That morn's chill blast

That calls me too to tread

Those ways of doubt and dread,

And numbered with the dead

To lie at last.