Ghost Weather

Wild gusts of drizzle hoot and hiss Through writhing lindens torn in two-- The dead’s own days are days like this! Yea; let me sit and be with you.

Here in your willow chair, whose seat Spreads purple plush.--Hark! how the gusts Seem moaning voices that repeat Some grief here; in this room, where dusts

Make dim each ornament and chair; This locked-in memory where you died: Since angels stood here, saintly fear Guards each dark corner, mournful-eyed.

Through this dim light bend your dim face; Or, like a rain-mist, gray of gleam, A soft, dim cloudiness of lace, Stand near me while I dream, I dream.