GHOSTS.

There are ghosts in the room.

As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there

They come out of the gloom,

And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.

There's the ghost of a Hope

That lighted my days with a fanciful glow,

In her hand is the rope

That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night,

With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,

And it stands in the light,

And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There's the ghost of a Joy,

A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,

And the hands that destroy

Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a Love,

Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,

But he towers above

All the others — this ghost: yet a ghost at the best.

I am weary, and fain

Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host

Make my struggle in vain,

In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.