GHOSTS
Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain,
And frosted the fretwork on window-pane.
The Storm King has laid his icy clasp
On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp.
The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow
Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow;
My heart leaps up, for I see a form
That makes the blood in my veins run warm:
A woman is standing beside my bed,
And these are the words, I swear, she said:—
"You may wander afar; but, go where you will,
The ghosts of the Past will follow you still!"
Another comes—a girl-face, worn,
And of every good resolution shorn,—
She utters no word; but her eyes of blue
Are burning, piercing me through and through!
Yet another comes and takes Her place——
I close my eyes lest I see her face——
For the flush of youth on the girlish brow
Is lost in the wanton woman now—
And I was to blame! God, let me forget!
And I wipe away the beads of sweat
That lie on my brow like blood-red rain——
And I try to pray—but words are vain;—
For I know that the ghosts of my sins are here
To mock me at this, the end o' th' Year!