GHOSTS

Deep lies the snow on the white, white plain, And frosted the fretwork on window-pane. The Storm King has laid his icy clasp On th' lock o' th' Year: 'tis an iron hasp. The camp fire gleams, and its ruddy glow Throws shadows quaint on the drifting snow; My heart leaps up, for I see a form That makes the blood in my veins run warm: A woman is standing beside my bed, And these are the words, I swear, she said:— "You may wander afar; but, go where you will, The ghosts of the Past will follow you still!" Another comes—a girl-face, worn, And of every good resolution shorn,— She utters no word; but her eyes of blue Are burning, piercing me through and through! Yet another comes and takes Her place—— I close my eyes lest I see her face—— For the flush of youth on the girlish brow Is lost in the wanton woman now— And I was to blame! God, let me forget! And I wipe away the beads of sweat That lie on my brow like blood-red rain—— And I try to pray—but words are vain;— For I know that the ghosts of my sins are here To mock me at this, the end o' th' Year!