Reality is the Irregularity of the Past.

Monday, February 21, 2011

The Ghost was She

The ghost was she who crossed the Dewpond fain,

Tho’ my New love didst not hear, nor question,

Across the Channel, through mist and rain;

This remembrance spears in recollection—

For it was I who found the gentle Grave—

The fresh dug earth in two hearts lie as one;

I watch’d the last drop of red Passion leave

Like tears the Night doth smear a face alone;

The Smoke is a sad place love doth wander,

For when it rains all Grey buildings weep;

Morose cornices like death drip yonder

To embrace a ghost Mem’ry treks ‘cross th’sea.

I glance a view athwart my chamber-bed,

And t’see her ghost, know I, to Love am dead.

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