The Ghost

A soul stands shuddering in the lone mid-spaces,
It sees as through a veil the lights below
And, sick for speech and love and human faces,
Turns from the void where houseless spirits go.
With outstretched hands it gropes again for home,
Like moth flame-lured, it beats at lighted panes,
Then turns through long-loved garden haunts to roam.
Or wander weeping through the darkling lanes.
Poor lonely wanderer of the twilight mist!
Whom once the lips of human lovers kissed,
That knowest not the warmth of home or fire,
Change or mortality or sweet perishings,
Day's birth or death, awakening. sleep, desire,
But only space and chill immortal things.

C. G. Watson.