By weeping, or by music, his way in,
Then move or force its warders to restore
His stolen Bride to his fond arms once more.
Poor Ghost! No third time destined she to float
Over foul Styx in Charon’s crazy boat!
But, hapless, doomed to swell the cavalcades
Of lifeless bodies, and of fleshless shades;
Nor one, nor other she; just borne along,
Drift on the tide—refrain to an old song—
Yet, flickering, like shadows on a wall,