A jewelled vinaigrette.
It looked so small and quaint and stiff,
With its little golden head
It made me think of a dead child
Lying straight and still
Within a coffin satin-lined.
It looked so small and quaint and stiff,
With its little golden head
It made me think of a dead child
Lying straight and still
Within a coffin satin-lined.
I've heard that it belonged
To a great-great-aunt of mine,
Once famous for her beauty, but she died
Young of a broken heart—
Because she might not wed the man she loved.
To a great-great-aunt of mine,
Once famous for her beauty, but she died
Young of a broken heart—
Because she might not wed the man she loved.
—One day, I even dared
To turn the golden key and thrust
A bold, impious hand
Within the cabinet and take
The vinaigrette from out its case.
I pulled the tiny stopper—lo,
Such a faint, keen perfume
Greeted my nostrils. 'Twas as sweet
As when the brier-roses lift
Their shallow chalices
Of silver, of pale coral to the rain.
Just a torn, trembling film of fragrance blown
On soft winds of the past.
Tell me—you, who believe in ghosts,
Was not this a strange sort of a ghost,
A sweet little ghost indeed?
To turn the golden key and thrust
A bold, impious hand
Within the cabinet and take
The vinaigrette from out its case.
I pulled the tiny stopper—lo,
Such a faint, keen perfume
Greeted my nostrils. 'Twas as sweet
As when the brier-roses lift
Their shallow chalices
Of silver, of pale coral to the rain.
Just a torn, trembling film of fragrance blown
On soft winds of the past.
Tell me—you, who believe in ghosts,
Was not this a strange sort of a ghost,
A sweet little ghost indeed?
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