Saturday, October 19, 2013

The Ghost.

By Edith (Nesbit) Bland (1858–1924)

THE YEAR fades, as the west wind sighs,
  And droops in many-coloured ways,
But your soft presence never dies
  From out the pathway of my days.
The spring is where you are; but still        5
  You, far away, to me can bring
Sweet flowers and dreams enough to fill
  A thousand empty worlds with spring.
I walk the wet and leafless woods,
  Your spirit ever floats before,        10
And lights its russet solitudes
  With blossoms summer never wore.
I sit beside my lonely fire,
  The shadows almost bring your face,
And light with memory and desire        15
  My desolated dwelling-place.
Among my books I feel your hand
  That turns the page just past my sight;
Sometimes behind my chair you stand
  And read the foolish rhymes I write.        20
The old piano’s keys I press
  In random chords—until I hear
Your voice, your rustling silken dress,
  And smell the roses that you wear.
I do not weep now any more,        25
  I think I hardly even sigh,
I would not let you think I bore
  The kind of wound of which men die.
Believe that smooth content has grown
  Over the ghastly grave of pain;        30
Content! Oh lips that were my own
  That I shall never kiss again!

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