The wind was angry, the rain beat sore
When the poor ghost came to its own house-door.
“And shall I find her a-weeping still
To think how alone I lie and chill?
“Or shall I find her happy and warm
With her dear head laid on a new love’s arm?
“Or shall I find she has learned to pine
For another’s love, and not for mine?
“Whatever chance, I have this to my store,
She is mine, my own, for evermore!”
So the poor ghost came through the wind and rain
Till it reached the square bright window pane.
“Oh! what is here in the room so bright?
Roses and love, and a hid delight?
“What lurks in the silence that fills the room?
A cypress wreath from a dead man’s tomb?
“What sleeps? What wakes? And oh! can it be
Her heart that is breaking—and not for me?”
Then the poor ghost looked through the window pane,
Though all the glass was wrinkled with rain.