Classic Poem

A GHOST AT THE DANCING.
A wind-swept tulip-bed—a colour'd cloud
Of butterflies careering in the air -
A many-figured arras stirred to life,
And merry unto midnight music dumb—
So the dance whirls.
Do any think of thee, Amiel,
Amiel? Friends greet each other—countless rills of talk
Meander round, scattering a spray of smiles.
Surely—the news was false. One minute more,
And thou wilt stand here, tall and quiet-eyed,
Shakesperian beauty in thy pensive face, Amiel, Amiel.
Many here knew and loved thee- I nor loved.
Scarce knew- yet in thy place a shadow glides,
And a face shapes itself from empty air,
Watching the dancers, grave and quiet-eyed.

A GHOST AT THE DANCING.
Eyes that now see the angels evermore, Amiel, Amiel.
On just such night as this, 'midst dance and song,
I badle thee carelessly a light good-bye
“Good-bye” - saidst thou; “A happy journey home”
Was the unseen death-angel at thy side,
Mocking those words “A happy journey home,” Amiel, Amiel?
Ay, we play fool's play still; thou hast gone home.
While these dance here, a mile hence o'er thy grave
Drifts the deep New Year snow. The wondrols gate
We spoke of, thou hast enter'd;
I without Grope ignorant still- thou dost its secrets know, Amiel, Amiel.
What if, thus sitting where we sat last year,
Thou carnest, took'st up our broken thread of tal:.
And told'st of that new Home, which far I vie,
As children, wandering on through wintry fields,
Mark on the hill the father's window shine, Amiel, Amiel?

A GHOST AT THE DANCING.
No. We shall see thy pleasant face no more;
Thy words on earth are ended.
Yet thou livest; 'tis we who die.—
I too, one day shall come,
And, unseen, watch these shadows, quiet-eyed—
Then flit back to thy land, the living land, Amiel, Amiel.