Meeting of Phantoms by Anders Osterling

 

I in a vision

Saw my lost sweetheart.

Fearlessly toward me

I saw her stray.

So pale! I thought then;

She smiled her answer:

“My heart, my spirit

I’ve kissed away.

“I to the breezes

Gave my life gladly,

Soon it was vanished,

Gone with a breath.

If I have grieved you,

Pardon the sorrow;

We are but phantoms,

Like now in death.”

My voice I heard then:

“That is forgiven

If unremembrance

Can pardon aught.

Give me again but

My heart, my spirit,–  

You alone found them

Of all that sought.”

Then I came nearer:

“Give me them quickly!

My road is long, love,

I cannot stay.”

She never heard me,

She in the night sang:

“All heart, all spirit

I’ve kissed away.”

I looked aside then,

By memory tortured,

Shrank back in terror

Toward daylight’s door.

I felt upon me

Those dark eyes resting,

Eyes that too well knew

My heart before.

Like wand’ring phantoms

Meseemed we both were–

A sigh, a whisper,

And fled was she.

No more could either

Help now the other,

We saw but, grieving,

That it was we.

The Glimpse by Thomas Hardy

 

She sped through the door

And, following in haste,

And stirred to the core,

I entered hot-faced;

But I could not find her,

No sign was behind her.

‘Where is she?’ I said:

“Who?” they asked that sat there;

“Not a soul’s come in sight.”

‘A maid with red hair.’

“Ah.” They paled. “She is dead.

People see her at night,

But you are the first

On whom she has burst

In the keen common light.”
It was ages ago,

When I was quite strong:

I have waited since,—O,

I have waited so long!

Yea, I set me to own

The house, where now lone

I dwell in void rooms

Booming hollow as tombs!

But I never come near her,

Though nightly I hear her.

And my cheek has grown thin

And my hair has grown gray

With this waiting therein;

But she still keeps away!

The Shadow On The Stone by Thomas Hardy

I went by the Druid stone
That broods in the garden white and lone,
And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows
That at some moments fall thereon
From the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing,
And they shaped in my imagining
To the shade that a well-known head and shoulders
Threw there when she was gardening.

I thought her behind my back,
Yea, her I long had learned to lack,
And I said: ‘I am sure you are standing behind me,
Though how do you get into this old track?’
And there was no sound but the fall of a leaf
As a sad response; and to keep down grief
I would not turn my head to discover
That there was nothing in my belief.

Yet I wanted to look and see
That nobody stood at the back of me;
But I thought once more: ‘Nay, I’ll not unvision
A shape which, somehow, there may be.’
So I went on softly from the glade,
And left her behind me throwing her shade,
As she were indeed an apparition—
My head unturned lest my dream should fade.

Something Tapped by Thomas Hardy

 

Something tapped on the pane of my room

When there was never a trace

Of wind or rain, and I saw in the gloom

My weary Belovèd’s face.
“O I am tired of waiting,” she said,

“Night, morn, noon, afternoon;

So cold it is in my lonely bed,

And I thought you would join me soon!”
I rose and neared the window-glass,

But vanished thence had she:

Only a pallid moth, alas,

Tapped at the pane for me.

Death’s Chill Between by Christina Rossetti

Chide not; let me breathe a little,
For I shall not mourn him long;
Though the life-cord was so brittle,
The love-cord was very strong.
I would wake a little space
Till I find a sleeping-place.

You can go, – I shall not weep;
You can go unto your rest.
My heart-ache is all too deep,
And too sore my throbbing breast.
Can sobs be, or angry tears,
Where are neither hopes nor fears?

Though with you I am alone
And must be so everywhere,
I will make no useless moan, –
None shall say ‘She could not bear:’
While life lasts I will be strong, –
But I shall not struggle long.

Listen, listen! Everywhere
A low voice is calling me,
And a step is on the stair,
And one comes ye do not see,
Listen, listen! Evermore
A dim hand knocks at the door.

Hear me; he is come again, –
My own dearest is come back.
Bring him in from the cold rain;
Bring wine, and let nothing lack.
Thou and I will rest together,
Love, until the sunny weather.

I will shelter thee from harm, –
Hide thee from all heaviness.
Come to me, and keep thee warm
By my side in quietness.
I will lull thee to thy sleep
With sweet songs: – we will not weep.

Who hath talked of weeping? – Yet
There is something at my heart,
Gnawing, I would fain forget,
And an aching and a smart.
– Ah! my mother, ’tis in vain,
For he is come again.

The Little Sister by Dora Sigerson Shorter

The wind knocks at the window,
⁠And my heart is full of fear.
For I know when it is calling
⁠That some evil thing is near.

It whispers in the chimney,
⁠And I strike the log to name,
Lest it come down and take me
⁠To the land that hath no name.

For once I had a sister,
⁠Who now am left alone,
And here we sat together,
⁠When the wind did sigh and moan«.

There came a gentle knocking
⁠Quick and sudden at the door.
And my sister hushed my terror.
⁠Saying, “’Tis the wind, a-stór!”

She took my arms from round her,
⁠She kissed me, cheek and chin,
But I cried, “Oh, little sister.
⁠Do not let the robber in!”

She rose up from me laughing,
⁠But her face was strange and white.
And she opened wide the window,
⁠Looking long into the night.
And I said, “Oh, little sister,
There is on your cheek a tear!”
“’Tis but the rain,” she whispered;
But my heart was full of fear.

And I said, “Oh, little sister.
There’s a hand upon the door.”
Soft she chid me from my crying,
Saying, “’Tis the wind, a-stór.”

And turning from me smiling.
She took down the bar and chain,
But her cheek was like the lily
As she went into the rain.

And I said, “Oh, little sister,
Will you then return no more?”
But I only heard the pushing
Of the wind upon the door.

Long I cried, “Oh, little sister.
Will you soon come back again?”
But I only heard the beating
Of the storm upon the pane.

Now my mother sits in sorrow,
Weeping all the livelong day;
And I think she dreads the robber
Who did take her child away.

So I put up bar and shutter
When the wind goes howling by.
For I know when it comes knocking
That some evil thing is nigh.

Wraith by Edna St. Vincent Millay

“Thin Rain, whom are you haunting,
That you haunt my door?”
—Surely it is not I she’s wanting;
Someone living here before—
“Nobody’s in the house but me:
You may come in if you like and see.”

Thin as thread, with exquisite fingers,—
Have you seen her, any of you?—
Grey shawl, and leaning on the wind,
And the garden showing through?

Glimmering eyes,—and silent, mostly,
Sort of a whisper, sort of a purr,
Asking something, asking it over,
If you get a sound from her.—

Ever see her, any of you?—
Strangest thing I’ve ever known,—
Every night since I moved in,
And I came to be alone.

“Thin Rain, hush with your knocking!
You may not come in!
This is I that you hear rocking;
Nobody’s with me, nor has been!”

Curious, how she tried the window,—
Odd, the way she tries the door,—
Wonder just what sort of people
Could have had this house before …

At Her Door by Roderic Quinn

Open! Open! Open!
I am here at your door outside;
The sea’s blue tide flows speedily,
And ebbs a thin red tide.’
The woman rose from her warm white bed,
Threw back her hair and smiled;
The ears of scorn heard the words of love,
And the wind and the words were wild.
‘Wake! Awake! Awake!
And hearken the woe outside;
The moon is hid in cloudiness;
Calleth and calleth the tide.’
The woman stood in the silence still
As a thing men carve from stone.
Her eyes burned largely in the dark,
And the smile, like a stain, stayed on.
‘Listen! Listen! Listen!
Hear you the rain to-night?
A warm dark rain is falling too,
And I grow ghostly-white.’
The woman took three steps and bowed;
The smile waned from her lip;
She heard the dripping of the rain
And a soft thick other drip.
‘Open! Open! Open!
I die in the dark alone.
My voice goes up in weariness
Against your heart of stone.’
The moon to a cloud-cleft stealing
Gazed down on the yearning tide;
The woman opened the streaming door
And stood in the rain outside.
Silence! Stillness! She whispers,
‘Ah, Love, that death should be!’
He sighed, ‘Your lips are loveliness!’
And she sobbed, ‘Woe is me!’
The woman pressed his dead white face
With her face as deadly white:
The moon drew in behind a cloud,
And the tide moaned through the night.

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!