The Ghost
XV
THE GHOST
Frank was killed in the month of November,
Near the midnight hour of a raw, wet day.
" Remember ? " you ask. How well I remember
That moment he passed away.
It was nearly twelve. We were joking together,
Sitting up late by the farmhouse fire,
When something plucked at the latch, and a shudder
Of weeping went past the byre.
" We've forgotten the War," the third of us muttered,
And walked to the door near the foot of the stair.
Then twice you clutched at the drenched words uttered
by that something that turned on us out of the air.
" What's that ? Did you hear ? Is it Frank ? Is he dead
there ? "
Looked at the night. And the lamp flared higher.
" Life has gone wrong ; but Death's a dark mender."
And a coal slipped out of the fire.
And every year comes the same visitation ;
Something intrudes-demands.
There is anxiousness then in all Life's vibration,
And we touch admonishing hands.
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