The Phantom Horsewoman
Queer are the ways of a man I know:He comes and standsIn a careworn craze,And looks at the sandsAnd the seaward haze,With moveless handsAnd face and gaze,Then turns to go . . .And what does he see when he gazes so?
They say he sees as an instant thingMore clear than to-day,A sweet soft sceneThat once was in playBy that briny green;Yes, notes alwayWarm, real, and keen,What his back years bring—A phantom of his own figuring.
Of this vision of his they might say more:Not only thereDoes he see this sight,But everywhereIn his brain—day, night,As if on the airIt were drawn rose bright—Yea, far from that shoreDoes he carry this vision of heretofore:
A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried,He withers daily,Time touches her not,But she still rides gailyIn his rapt thoughtOn that shagged and shalyAtlantic spot,And as when first eyedDraws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.
Sign in to like, rate and collect poems, and keep track of what you've read.