"The c.o.c.k it crows--I must be gone!

My William, we must part!

But I'll be yours in death, altho'

Sir Astley has my heart.

"Don't go to weep upon my grave, And think that there I be; They haven't left an atom there Of my anatomie."

THE SUPERSt.i.tIOUS GHOST: ARTHUR GUITERMAN

I'm such a quiet little ghost, Demure and inoffensive, The other spirits say I'm most Absurdly apprehensive.

Through all the merry hours of night I'm uniformly cheerful; I love the dark; but in the light, I own I'm rather fearful.

Each dawn I cower down in bed, In every brightness seeing That weird uncanny form of dread-- An awful Human Being!

Of course I'm told they can't exist, That Nature would not let them: But w.i.l.l.y Spook, the Humanist, Declares that he has met them!

He says they do not glide like us, But walk in eerie paces; They're solid, not diaphanous, With arms! and legs!! and faces!!!

And some are beggars, some are kings, Some have and some are wanting, They squander time in doing things, Instead of simply haunting.

They talk of "art," the horrid crew, And things they call "ambitions."-- Oh, yes, I know as well as you They're only superst.i.tions.

But should the dreadful day arrive When, starting up, I see one, I'm sure 'twill scare me quite alive; And then--Oh, then I'll be one!

DAVE LILLY: JOYCE KILMER

There's a brook on the side of Greylock that used to be full of trout, But there's nothing there now but minnows; they say it is all fished out.

I fished there many a Summer day some twenty years ago, And I never quit without getting a mess of a dozen or so.

There was a man, Dave Lilly, who lived on the North Adams road, And he spent all his time fishing, while his neighbors reaped and sowed.

He was the luckiest fisherman in the Berkshire hills, I think.

And when he didn't go fishing he'd sit in the tavern and drink.

Well, Dave is dead and buried and n.o.body cares very much; They have no use in Greylock for drunkards and loafers and such, But I always liked Dave Lilly, he was pleasant as you could wish, He was shiftless and good-for-nothing, but he certainly could fish.

The other night I was walking up the hill from Williamstown And I came to the brook I mentioned, and I stopped on the bridge and sat down.

I looked at the blackened water with its little flecks of white, And I heard it ripple and whisper in the still of the Summer night.

And after I'd been there a minute it seemed to me I could feel The presence of someone near me, and I heard the hum of a reel.

And the water was churned and broken, and something was brought to land By a twist and a flirt of a shadowy rod in a deft and shadowy hand.

I scrambled down to the brookside and hunted all about; There wasn't a sign of a fisherman; there wasn't a sign of a trout.

But I heard somebody chuckle behind the hollow oak And I got a whiff of tobacco like Lilly used to smoke.

It's fifteen years, they tell me, since anyone fished that brook; And there's nothing in it but minnows that nibble the bait off your hook.

But before the sun has risen and after the moon has set I know that it's full of ghostly trout for Lilly's ghost to get.

I guess I'll go to the tavern and get a bottle of rye And leave it down by the hollow oak, where Lilly's ghost went by.

I meant to go up on the hillside and try to find his grave And put some flowers on it--but this will be better for Dave.

MARTIN: JOYCE KILMER

When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen, Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland, Beyond the trackless purple sea, Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and talk to me.

Still on his delicate pale face A quizzical thin smile is showing, His cheeks are wrinkled like fine lace, His kind blue eyes are gay and glowing.

He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair.

How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty.

How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth.

Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?"

Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory.

A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child.

Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation?

Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success!

HAUNTED PLACES

THE LISTENERS: WALTER DE LA MARE

"Is anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the gra.s.ses Of the forest's ferny floor: And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again the second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said.

But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his gray eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still.

But only the host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call: And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky.

For he suddenly smote upon the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said.

Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Aye, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone.

HAUNTED HOUSES: HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

All houses wherein men have lived and died Are haunted houses. Through the open doors The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, Along the pa.s.sages they come and go, Impalpable impressions on the air, A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts Invited; the illuminated hall Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts, As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see The forms I see, or hear the sounds I hear; He but perceives what is; while unto me All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no t.i.tle-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense A vital breath of more ethereal air.