Ghosts by Joseph Campbell

The nettle chokes the beaten earth,
The ivy-tree the stone–
The living dead must mind
The walls that were their own.

The living dead must surely mind
The constant stream that spills
Into a granite pool
Between the folding hills.

It twists about, it trickles thro’
And with a hollow sound,
It spills into the pool,
And gurgles underground.

Last night, last night, as I came by
The ruins grey and bare,
I heard a human voice
Make music on the air

For tho’ the nettle chokes the earth,
The ivy-tree the stone,
The living dead must mind
The walls that were their own.

I looked, and lo, the driven moon
Hid in a bank of cloud;
And when it shone I saw
A woman in her shroud

She sang, and washed a wooden churn
All in the water white:
Her hair was in the stream,
Her shroud was spun of light.

She washed, and coloured bubbles foamed,
About her fallen hair;
And human laughter rang
Into the icy air.

It seemed the pool was white with feet,
The darkness bright with eyes,
The ruins warm with song,
With laughter and with sighs.

For though the nettle chokes the earth,
The ivy-tree the stone,
The living dead must mind
The walls that were their own.

Haunted by Ina Donna Coolbrith

The water, lapping, lapping in the reeds!
What stood beside it in the waning moon
And gave to it the sigh and sob of tears?
The sound of tears that nevermore is still-
The water lapping, lapping in the reeds.

Was it a shadow there?
Or but the thin mist shifting in the wind
Beneath the paling moon
Of night’s mid-noon?
Only the mist that like a thin white wraith,
Sees and unseen-
A white wan wraith
Beside the matted rushes of the pool
That lies below the hill?
Lies like a thing of ill,
Its slow dark waters lapping in the reeds,
With sigh and sob of tears-
With sound of tears that never can be still,
The water lapping, lapping in the reeds.

And Ghosts Break Up Their Graves by John Vance Cheney

Swift round and round yon yellow mound,
With grasses rank and pale,
Race stiffened leaves; a waking sound
Is on the autumn gale.

The night winds blow till heard below,
The graves unquiet be;
Now here, now there, shapes to and fro
Are moving silently.

The dead are up; they take the gale
That rakes the yellow mound.
Hark! laughter the~e! or was it wail?
Life does not know that sound.

The trees lean close, the owlets cry,
They wait the midnight swoon;
See! it is like a dead man’s eye,
The dim, the flying moon.

Haunted by Dora Sigerson Shorter

How restless are the dead whose silent feet will stray
In to our lone retreat or solitary way;
Within the dew-wet wood or sun-enchanted lane
We meet them face to face, we hear them speak again.

How powerful are the dead whose voices ever speak,
So softly by our side in accents faint and weak:
They bid us go or stay, or do, or leave undone,
We hear them breathe our name ere dawn has well begun.

How silent are the dead when come accusing fears
To chide our aching hearts, to fill our days with tears:
They hush not now our grief, nor heed us as we plead
For some unspoken word, or some ungentle deed.

Beside the golden fire they take the empty chair
They tread from room to room, they pass from stair to stair,
And when comes tranquil night to call to us to sleep
Within our pleasant dreams the restless dead will creep.

How pitiless the dead who come in dearest guise
And most belovéd ways before our wistful eyes;
To cry to us lost words that we remembered not,
To act again each scene that we had half forgot.

And should we seek to ease our heart with some caress
How timidly they fly and leave us loneliness:
How fugitive the dead who at our stricken call
Hide in the chilly tomb and answer not at all.

Motley the Ghost by Walter de la Mare

‘Who knocks?’ ‘I, who was beautiful,
Beyond all dreams to restore,
I, from the roots of the dark thorn am hither.
And knock on the door.’

‘Who speaks?’ ‘I – once was my speech
Sweet as the bird’s on the air,
When echo lurks by the waters to heed;
‘Tis I speak thee fair.’

‘Dark is the hour!’ ‘Ay, and cold.’
‘Lone is my house.’ ‘Ah, but mine?’
‘Sight, touch, lips, eyes yearned in vain.’
‘Long dead these to thine…’

Silence. Still faint on the porch
Brake the flames of the stars.
In gloom groped a hope-wearied hand
Over keys, bolts, and bars.

A face peered. All the grey night
In chaos of vacancy shone;
Nought but vast sorrow was there –
The sweet cheat gone.

The Return by Mary C. Landon

 

Light all the lamps in the windows:

I shall not come home.

I shall stay out here with the wind.

I want to roam.

Leave all the doors in the house wide:

I shall pass them by.

I am going up on a hill

And watch the sky.

Pile up the wood in the fireplace,

And then let it flare:

I am going where I can feel

The rain  in my hair.

Just before dawn I came creeping,

Cold and wet and thin;

I knocked and called, but no one came:

O, let me in!

In the mist and the rain I met you by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge

In the mist and the rain I met you,
—Scarcely I saw your face.
The buffeting wind beset you,
—And robbed you of your grace.
——My arms went round thee,
——My love found thee
———A resting place.

Therefore the sun at morning
—Is not so dear.
I cherish the wild warning
—Of love, not fear,
——That comes with rain crying
——And wind sighing,
———“She is here!”

On A Heath by Thomas Hardy

 

I could hear a gown-skirt rustling

Before I could see her shape,

Rustling through the heather

That wove the common’s drape,

On that evening of dark weather

When I hearkened, lips agape.
And the town-shine in the distance

Did but baffle here the sight,

And then a voice flew forward:

“Dear, is’t you? I fear the night!”

And the herons flapped to norward

In the firs upon my right.
There was another looming

Whose life we did not see’

There was one stilly blooming

Full nigh to where walked we ;

There was a shade entombing

All that was bright of me.

My Darling, We Sat Together by Heinrich Heine

My darling, we sat together,
We two, in our frail boat;
The night was calm o’er the wide sea
Whereon we were afloat.

The Specter-Island, the lovely,
Lay dim in the moon’s mild glance;
There sounded sweetest music,
There waved the shadowy dance.

It sounded sweeter and sweeter,
It waved there to and fro;
But we slid past forlornly
Upon the great sea-flow.

Phantom by Guanetta Grant Gordon

Last night when the moon was free
I sent a breeze as messenger
To brush a kiss across your lips.
Did you turn your head, alert
Because it ruffled up your hair
So like my fingers, light as air?
Did you close your eyes to dream
And hear the rustle of the leaves?
It was my echo, whispering
My heart, my soul, belong to you!
And always, when the moon hangs low
Should you but pause and wish for me
You will feel my presence near,
Lingering in every shadow
Beneath the pale moonglow of night.