The Ghost

That little maid (Myself) I met,—was it in dreams we played?—White April spun its lacy net, the timid, budding boughs were yetToo tender green for shade;"Sweetheart," quoth I, "where hast thou been so long away from me?Oft as the boughs turned white and green, thy like in daffodils I've seenAnd yet I saw not thee."

Wondering she looked. I sighed; "Alas, hast thou forgotten, too?Forgot our fairies in the grass and how we knelt to hear them passAmid the dusk and dew?Our castle and our wood-bird's call,—these, these hast thou forgot?The pebbles near the mill-stream's fall?—" "Nay, nay," spake she, "I know them all,But thy face, I know not."

"Child, child, thou art that self I had, thou shalt not go!" I cried."Ah, no," she said, "for I am glad, whilst thou art strange and old and sad;Mine is the green world wide!"—That little maid (Myself) alone sped through sweet April's light,Into a world all pristine sown with Spring's nativity new-blownAnd never hint of night.And I?—Face from the sun's red flame that smote white April's spearsI lay and dreamed; nor called her name that time she went . . . God knows there cameNo sound, save that of tears.