The sombre funeral, with its village pace;
The young full-blooded boys that roamed the street;
The old men Death was walking out to meet;
The good grandames whose gossip whipped the hours;
The girls with faces stolen from the flowers;
Those forms I knew, in reappearing hosts,
Crowd every corner, as on gala days;
They throng the mind—these silent memory-ghosts,
Then sadly smile, and vanish from the gaze.
And some I loved beyond all words' control,