A Ghost Story by Randall Jarrell

The fox lifts his head from the feathers

And stares to the goose in the sky;

A song drifts from the bars of the tower

To the sow asleep in her sty.

The crushed or folded flower

Is grey in the grey of the moon;

The moonlight dreams of moonlight.

The vacant whorls of the tune
Ripple like wheat to the shepherd

from the light in the empty tower.

He nods, and the blurred moon sets.

The voice laughs over and over,
The ticking shriek of the crickets

Fades; and a long, light sigh

Trails over the lonely valley,

The leaves stir absently.