“Are you visited by phantoms or by ghosts at midnight, walking?
See you grim and grisley spectres? Do you never hear them talking?
Talking low, in chilling whispers, of the worn heart’s secret sorrows,
Of the lone heart’s hidden treasures, and the hopes it vainly borrows?
“When alone, at evening sitting, in the shadows of the twilight,
See them softly by you flitting—or in dimness of the firelight—
Phantoms of your youthful pleasures, mocking at you now, and scoffing,
Whispering as they brush you, lightly, ‘past the hours of mirth and laughing.’
“Spectres of the dear departed, who once smiled upon you, brightly;
Of the fair and faithful hearted, whom you love to dream of, nightly.