STRANGE apparition of a vagrant hour,
Thou comest as a mist from o'er the sea —
Dim fashioned — gliding silently,
To burst the bud of memory into flower.
Some passing soul hast given thee for dower
A cunning hand with which to touch the heart —
Thrilling afresh the life-blood with thy power
Till wounds, forgotten, with new anguish smart.
Thou hast no season — neither night nor day
Can speak thine absence, truly, from our side;
At any step along our fleeting way
The mocking shadows of thy presence glide.
Face unto face, we mutely stand and gaze,
Knowing thee well — thou ghost of bygone days.
