Ii

That was a most uncanny dream; I thought the wraiths of those Long buried in the Potter’s Field, in shredded shrouds arose; They said, ‘Against the will of God We have usurped the fertile sod, Now will we make it yield.’

Oh! but it was a gruesome sight, to see those phantoms toil; Each to his own small garden bent; each spaded up the soil; (I never knew Ghosts laboured so.) Each scattered seed, and watched, till lo! The Graves were opulent.

Then all among the fragrant greens, the silent, spectral train Walked, as if breathing in the breath of plant, and flower, and grain. (I never knew Ghosts loved such things; Perchance it brought back early springs Before they thought of death.)

‘The mothers’ milk for living babes; the earth for living hosts; The clean flame for the un-souled dead.’ (Oh, strange the words of Ghosts.) ‘If we had owned this little spot In life, we need not lie and rot Here in a pauper’s bed.’