GHOSTS

Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain, And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.

The Storm King has laid his icy clasp On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.

The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow;

My heart leaps up, for I see a form That makes the blood in my veins run warm:

A woman is standing beside my bed, And these are the words, I swear, she said:—