A ghost—­is he afraid to be a ghost? 
  A ghost?  It breaks my heart to think of it. 
Something that wavers in the moon, at most;
  Something that wanders:  something that must flit
From morning, from the bird’s breath and the dew. 
Ah, if I knew,—­ah, if I only knew!

Something so weirdly wan, so weirdly still! 
  O yearning lips that our warm blood can flush,
Follow it with your kisses, if you will;
  O beating heart, think of its helpless hush. 
Oh, bitterest of all, to feel we fear
Something that was so near, that was so dear!

No—­no, he is no ghost; he could not be;
  Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier;
Something shut outside in the dark, while we
  Laugh and forget by the familiar fire;
Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears
Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS:  JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright,
  And the old brig’s sail unfurl’d;
I said, “I will sail to my love this night
  At the other side of the world.” 
I stepp’d abroad,—­we sail’d so fast,—­
  The sun shot up from the bourn;
But a dove that perch’d upon the mast
  Did mourn and mourn and mourn. 
    O fair dove!  O fond dove! 
      And dove with the white, white breast,
    Let me alone, the dream is my own,
      And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill,
  Feeding his sheep for aye;
I look’d in his hut, but all was still,
  My love was gone away. 
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
  And the dove mourn’d on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
  Rose up to show me his place. 
    O last love!  O first love! 
      My love with the true, true heart,
    To think I have come to this your home,
      And yet—­we are apart!

My love!  He stood at my right hand,
  His eyes were grave and sweet. 
Methought he said, “In this far land,
  O, is it thus we meet? 
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
  I have no place,—­no part,—­
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
  But only in thy heart.” 
    O fair dove!  O fond dove! 
      Till night rose over the bourn,
    The dove on the mast, as we sail’d fast,
      Did mourn and mourn and mourn.

BETRAYAL:  ALINE KILMER

Four hundred times the glass had run
  And seven times the moon had died
Since my lover rode in his silver mail
  Away from his new-made bride.

A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond
  And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea
When out of the mist my own true love
  Came up and stood by me.

My heart leapt up that had been still,
  My voice rang out that had been sad,
Till my sister left her busy wheel
  To see what made me glad.