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Poem	Ghosts of all my lovely sins, Who attend too well my pillow, Gay the wanton rain begins; Hide the limp and tearful willow. Turn aside your eyes and ears, Trail away your robes of sorrow, You shall have my further years- You shall walk with me tomorrow. I am sister to the rain; Fey and sudden and unholy, Petulant at the windowpane, Quickly lost, remembered slowly. I have lived with shades, a shade; I am hung with graveyard flowers. Let me be tonight arrayed In the silver of the showers. Every fragile thing shall rust; When another April passes I may be a furry dust, Sifting through the brittle grasses. All sweet sins shall be forgot; Who will live to tell their siring? Hear me now, nor let me rot Wistful still, and still aspiring. Ghosts of dear temptations, heed; I am frail, be you forgiving. See you not that I have need To be living with the living? Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast; Glide among the dim processions Of the exquisite unblest, Spirits of my shared transgressions, Roam with young Persephone. Plucking poppies for your slumber . . . With the morrow, there shall be One more wraith among your number.
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