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.