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 comes 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 a 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 a 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 the struggle in vain.
In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.

Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].

Back to Poem Index