Classic Poem

It was, Ithink, the Lover of the play:
He, from stage-incantations, turned his head,
And one remembered motion shook away
The whole mock fairyland and raised the dead.

I, in an instant, saw the scenery change.
Old trees before me by enchantment grew.
Late roses shivered, beautiful and strange.
One red geranium scented all the dew.

A sudden comet flung its awful vail
Around the frightened stars. A sudden light
Stood, moon-shaped, in the East. A sudden wail
From troubled music smote the spectral night.

Then blue sweet shadows fell from flower-like eyes,
And purplish darkness drooped on careless hair,
And lips most lovely—ah, what empty sighs,
Breathed to the air, for something less than air!

Oh, beauty such as no man ever wore
In this wan world outside of Eden's shine,
Save he who vanished from the sun before
Youth learned that youth itself was not divine!

I might have touched that fair and real ghost,
He laughed so lightly, looked so bright and brave—
So all unlike that thin and wavering host
Who walk unquiet from the quiet grave.

Myself another ghost as vain and young,
And nearer Heaven than now by years and years,
My heart, like some quick bird of morning, sung
On fluttering wings above all dust and tears.

But some great lightning made a long red glare:
Black-plumed and brigand-like I saw him stand—
What ghastly sights, what noises in the air!
How sharp the sword seemed in his lifted hand!

He looked at me across the fading field.
The South was in his blood, his soul, his face.
Imperious despair, too lost to yield,
Gave a quick glory to a desperate grace.

I saw him fall. I saw the deadly stain
Upon his breast—he cared not what was won.
The ghost was in the land of ghosts again.
The curtain fell, the phantom play was done.