Ghosts
How silent are the dead,
Whose quiet feet don't stray;
We see them face to face,
As they go their lonely way.
These ghostly apparitions,
Who've forgotten all their fears;
They rebuke our aching heart,
And fill our time with tears.
Beside the flickering fire,
They steal the vacant chair;
They glide all through the house,
Passing silent up the stair.
When comes the fall of night,
And we are called to sleep;
Around our head in dreams,
These ghostly spirits creep.
In dark forbidden hours,
Their sighing rides the storm;
They whisper to the soul,
With voices so forlorn.
How elusive are the dead,
Who hear our anxious call;
They float throughout the dark,
And answer not at all.
Copyright © Elizabeth Wesley | Year Posted 2011
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