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Monday, August 27, 2018

The Phantom Horsewoman

I

Queer are the ways of a man I know: 
He comes and stands 
In a careworn craze, 
And looks at the sands 
And the seaward haze 
With moveless hands 
And face and gaze, 
Then turns to go... 
And what does he see when he gazes so? 

II 

They say he sees as an instant thing 
More clear than to-day, 
A sweet soft scene 
That once was in play 
By that briny green; 
Yes, notes alway 
Warm, real, and keen, 
What his back years bring— 
A phantom of his own figuring. 

III 

Of this vision of his they might say more: 
Not only there 
Does he see this sight, 
But everywhere 
In his brain–day, night, 
As if on the air 
It were drawn rose bright– 
Yea, far from that shore 
Does he carry this vision of heretofore: 

IV 

A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, 
He withers daily, 
Time touches her not, 
But she still rides gaily 
In his rapt thought 
On that shagged and shaly 
Atlantic spot, 
And as when first eyed 
Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide. 

-o0o-

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