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.
Darkling, I Listen 