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!