is no ghost; he could not be;
Something that hides, forlorn, in frost and brier;
Something shut outside in the dark, while we
Laugh and forget by the familiar fire;
Something whose moan we call the wind, whose tears
Sound but as rain-drops in our human ears.

SAILING BEYOND SEAS: JEAN INGELOW

Methought the stars were blinking bright,
And the old brig's sail unfurl'd;
I said, "I will sail to my love this night
At the other side of the world."
I stepp'd abroad,--we sail'd so fast,--
The sun shot up from the bourn;
But a dove that perch'd upon the mast
Did mourn and mourn and mourn.
O fair dove! O fond dove!
And dove with the white, white breast,
Let me alone, the dream is my own,
And my heart is full of rest.

My true love fares on this great hill,
Feeding his sheep for aye;
I look'd in his hut, but all was still,
My love was gone away.
I went to gaze in the forest creek,
And the dove mourn'd on apace;
No flame did flash, nor fair blue reek
Rose up to show me his place.
O last love! O first love!
My love with the true, true heart,
To think I have come to this your home,
And yet--we are apart!

My love! He stood at my right hand,
His eyes were grave and sweet.
Methought he said, "In this far land,
O, is it thus we meet?
Ah, maid most dear, I am not here;
I have no place,--no part,--
No dwelling more by sea or shore,
But only in thy heart."
O fair dove! O fond dove!
Till night rose over the bourn,
The dove on the mast, as we sail'd fast,
Did mourn and mourn and mourn.

BETRAYAL: ALINE KILMER

Four hundred times the glass had run
And seven times the moon had died
Since my lover rode in his silver mail
Away from his new-made bride.

A ghost-light gleamed in the field beyond
And a wet, wet wind blew in from the sea
When out of the mist my own true love
Came up and stood by me.

My heart leapt up that had been still,
My voice rang out that had been sad,
Till my sister left her busy wheel
To see what made me glad.

She saw my arms about his neck,
She saw my head upon his breast.
Oh, why did my sister hate me so
That she would not let me rest?

Loud then laughed my cruel sister,
False and fair of face was she,
"O that is never your own true love,
For he lies dead in a far countrie!"

I loosed the clasp of my clinging arms
And his shining face grew still and white;
My tears ran