GHOSTS

      There are ghosts in the room.
   As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there
      They come out of the gloom,
   And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.

      There's the ghost of a Hope
   That lighted my days with a fanciful glow,
      In her hand is the rope
   That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

      But her ghost come to-night
   With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,
      And it stands in the light,
   And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

      There's the ghost of a Joy,
   A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,
      And the hands that destroy
   Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

      There's the ghost of a Love,
   Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,
      But he towers above
   All the others---this ghost; yet a ghost at the best,

      I am weary, and fain
   Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host
      Make my struggle in vain---
   In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.

Poetical works of Ella Wheeler Wilcox. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Edinburgh : W. P. Nimmo, Hay, & Mitchell, 1917.


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