Fair Ghosts
When the extreme of autumn whirls the oak-leaf from the forest.
Till from the withered ling,
The hardiest birds take wing;—
Courage, O Heart! there surges through this winter thou abhorrest,
The Vision of the spring!
When the oncoming years dispel the magic of our morning
Till all the Past is shed
With petals falling red:
Perish'd illusions, hope defeated, passion turned to scorning,
Eternal friendship dead;
Ah, in how many an hour of twilight,—Soft! they wake and flutter,
And hover round us yet,
The ghosts of our regret:
Evermore altered faces, names we never hear or utter
And nevermore forget!
Rock, O tormented forest, all thy branches torn and hoary!
In vain the tempest stings;
The skies I watch are Spring's,
Lovelier still and haloed with the soft poetic glory
Of all remembered things!
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