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The Vigil by Roderic Quinn

 

The rain is falling on the roof,

And no sound else disturbs the wife,

Except the trees and winds at strife,

Now near at hand and now aloof;

But listening, leaning evermore,

She waits a knock upon the door.
Her hair is braided round her head;

Her eyes are large and fierce and bright;

Her shapely throat is soft and white;

And on her mouth there burns the red

Of that rich, storied gem that shone

Upon the breast of Prester John.
Upon the couch her husband lies.

How is it that he lies so still?

Why sleeps he there so pale and chill,

The lamplight on his lidded eyes?

Has she not fire, and more than fire

To thrill his flesh with hot desire?
Anon she lifts her rounded arms

As though to feel that she is free;

And her large eyes exultantly

Light up, as when the dawn-glow charms

With roseate lights that gleam and glance

Twin pools to sudden radiance.
The rain is falling on the roof;

Yet, though her ears are open wide,

There is no other sound outside—

No fall of foot, nor tramp of hoof.

And on his couch with lidded eyes

The husband, cold and pallid, lies.
The midnight sky is wild and black

And drenches earth with ceaseless tears;

And now it seems to her she hears

Hoof-strokes upon the sodden track;

And now she rises, sweet as sin,

To let the late night-strayer in.
The lamplight gleams upon his face,

And glistens on his reddened spur;

He stretches out his arms to her

And folds her in a rude embrace… .

How can it be the husband lies

So still, with heavy-lidded eyes?
Perchance he neither sees nor hears,

And sleeps unmoved by chance or change.

And yet… .and yet, it seems so strange—

If he be dead there should be tears.

Not love nor smiles, nor midnight bliss,

Nor mouths that marry in a kiss.
The loud winds thrust upon the door,

The raindrops plash against the roof,

The trickles from a waterproof

Make little pools upon the floor;

No foe between, no more apart,

They stand, heart throbbing back to heart.
Anon she says: ‘He died this morn.

He did not die a whit too soon;

Life’s day, alas, makes towards its noon.

He should have died when love was born.

He should have died long since. And now

Kiss me again—my mouth, my brow!’

Porphyria’s Lover by Robert Browning

 

The rain set early in to-night,

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me for ever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,

Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew

Porphyria worshipped me; surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,

Perfectly pure and good: I found

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;

I am quite sure she felt no pain.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!

The Phantom Ball by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

You remember the hall on the corner?
To-night as I walked down street
I heard the sound of music,
And the rhythmic beat and beat,
In time to the pulsing measure
Of lightly tripping feet.

And I turned and entered the doorway—
It was years since I had been there—
Years, and life seemed altered:
Pleasure had changed to care.
But again I was hearing the music
And watching the dancers fair.

And then, as I stood and listened,
The music lost its glee;
And instead of the merry waltzers
There were ghosts of the Used-to-be—
Ghosts of the pleasure-seekers
Who once had danced with me.

Oh, ‘twas a ghastly picture!
Oh, ’twas a gruesome crowd!
Each bearing a skull on his shoulder,
Each trailing a long white shroud,
As they whirled in the dance together,
And the music shrieked aloud.

As they danced, their dry bones rattled
Like shutters in a blast;
And they stared from eyeless sockets
On me as they circled past;
And the music that kept them whirling
Was a funeral dirge played fast.

Some of them wore their face-cloths,
Others were rotted away.
Some had mould on their garments,
And some seemed dead but a day.
Corpses all, but I knew them
As friends, once blithe and gay.

Beauty and strength and manhood—
And this was the end of it all:
Nothing but phantoms whirling
In a ghastly skeleton ball.
But the music ceased—and they vanished,
And I came away from the hall.

At The Piano by Thomas Hardy

A Woman was playing,
A man looking on;
And the mould of her face,
And her neck, and her hair,
Which the rays fell upon
Of the two candles there,
Sent him mentally straying
In some fancy-place
Where pain had no trace.
A cowled Apparition
Came pushing between;
And her notes seemed to sigh;
And the lights to burn pale,
As a spell numbed the scene.
But the maid saw no bale,
And the man no monition;
And Time laughed awry,
And the Phantom hid nigh.

Ghosts in Love by Vachel Lindsay

“Tell me, where do ghosts in love
Find their bridal veils?”

“If you and I were ghosts in love
We’d climb the cliffs of Mystery,
Above the sea of Wails.
I’d trim your gray and streaming hair
With veils of Fantasy
From the tree of Memory.
‘Tis there the ghosts that fall in love
Find their bridal veils.”

Shadow by Robin Hyde

Hear me whisper, whisper to you
Through these empty rooms,
See my dress in the ripple
Of the shot-silk evening glooms,
Think my hands on the spinet
When a quiet breeze stirs
And a tortured phoenix evening
Burns in the brooding firs.

See my face lifted to you again
Praying for some small boon
Less to your clear endeavour
Than the white jest of the moon.
Dead world, dead lady,
And your own heart a-dying …
Hush … turn away swiftly …
It’s not I you hear crying.

The Ghost Chamber by John Bannister Tabb

Into the lonely room,
Spawning an icy gloom,
Lost in a wandering swoon
Gloats the wide-horned moon.

Silent the shadows gray
Shrink from her touch away,
Loathing her leprous light
Spotting the robe of Night,
Moulting a hoary gloom
Over a haunted room.

Cometh no whisper there:
Spasms of dank despair
Curdle the echoes round,
Stifling the birth of sound
In the grim charnel-womb
Of the deserted room.

Stark are the staring walls,
Like unto lidless balls—
Domes of departed sleep—
Doomed evermore to keep
Watch o’er the prisoned gloom
Of the forsaken room.

The Mist by John Copwer Powys

In and out of the mist
We waver, ghosts that we are!
And the hands and lips we have kissed
Beckon us from afar:
Beckon us, whisper us, cry to us.
In and out of the mist;
Mock us, elude us, fly from us;
The hands and lips we have kissed.

In and out of the mist, like ghosts
We waver along the shore.
Flickering phantom-hosts,
Lost evermore — evermore!
Whispering, beckoning, sighing,
Weeping, vexing the night.
Nothing can stop our crying.
Except red burning light!

Ghosts in the mist are we,
And ghosts are the planets who peer
And peep at our misery.
With their tender pitiful leer;
But the great vermilion sun
That in one moment’s blaze
Could melt, transfigure, and clarify.
And outline against eternity.
Our inmost selves and our troubled days,

The laughing, careless, reckless sun,
The life-giver, when all is done,
Knowing no weakness or tenderness,
Having no pity for our distress.
Sick to death of our mists and lies,
Pours himself upon other skies.

I Say I’ll Seek Her by Thomas Hardy

I say, “I’ll seek her side
Ere hindrance interposes;”
But eve in midnight closes,
And here I still abide.

When darkness wears I see
Her sad eyes in a vision;
They ask, “What indecision
Detains you, Love, from me? –

“The creaking hinge is oiled,
I have unbarred the backway,
But you tread not the trackway;
And shall the thing be spoiled?

“Far cockcrows echo shrill,
The shadows are abating,
And I am waiting, waiting;
But O, you tarry still!”

Ghosts by Marion Francis Brown

The wind is full of ghosts tonight.
Let them carry your body far.
Let them bury you out of sight
Under a brooding star.

I can not weep for blood or bone.
Flesh grown cold or eyes that stare.
Let them tuck you under a stone.
Little, little I care.

For the wind is full of ghosts that talk,
And I a rendezvous must keep
With something more than dust and chalk
Before I sleep.