Who is it sits in that high-backed chair,
Quaintly in ruff and patch arrayed,
With a mockery gay of a stately air
As she rustles the folds of her old brocade,—
Merriest heart at the masquerade?
Ah, but the picture is passing fast
Back to the darkness from which it strayed—
’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.
Who is it whirls in a ball-room’s glare,
Her soft white hand on my shoulder laid,
Like a radiant lily, tall and fair,
While the violins in the corner played
The wailing strains of the Serenade?
Oh, lovely vision, too sweet to last—
E’en now my fancy it will evade—
’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past,
L’ENVOI
Rosamond! look not so dismayed,
All of my heart, dear love, thou hast
Jealous, beloved? Of a shade?—
’Tis only a ghost of a Christmas Past.
BALLADE OF CHRISTMAS GHOSTS
ANDREW LANG
Between the moonlight and the fire
In winter twilights long ago,
