The Haunted Hour Part 1

The Haunted Hour.

by Various.

PREFACE

This does not attempt to be an inclusive anthology. The ghostly poetry of the late war alone would have made a book as large as this; and an inclusive scheme would have ended as a six-volume Encyclopedia of Ghostly Verse. I hope that this may be called for some day. The present book has been held to the conventional limits of the type of small anthology which may be read without weariness (I hope) by the exclusion not only of many long and dreary ghost-poems, but many others which it was very hard to leave out.

I have not considered as ghost-poems anything but poems which related to the return of spirits to earth. Thus "The Blessed Damozel," a poem of spirits in heaven, "La Belle Dame Sans Merci," whose heroine may be a fairy or witch, and whose ghosts are presented in dream only, do not belong in this cla.s.sification; nor do such poems as Mathilde Blind's lovely sonnet, "The Dead Are Ever with Us," cla.s.s as ghost-poems; for in these the dead are living in ourselves in a half-metaphorical sense. If a poem would be a ghost-story, in short, I have considered it a ghost-poem, not otherwise.

In this connection I wish to thank Mabel Cleland Ludlum for her unwearied and intelligent a.s.sistance with the selection and compilation of the book; and Aline Kilmer for help in its revision and arrangement.

Margaret Widdemer.

THE HAUNTED HOUR

THE FAR AWAY COUNTRY

NORA HOPPER CHESSON

_Far away's the country where I desire to go,_ _Far away's the country where the blue roses grow,_ _Far away's the country and very far away,_ _And who would travel thither must go 'twixt night and day._

_Far away's the country, and the seas are wild_ _That you must voyage over, grown man or chrisom child,_ _O'er leagues of land and water a weary way you'll go_ _Before you'll find the country where the blue roses grow._

_But O, and O, the roses are very strange and fair,_ _You'd travel far to see them, and one might die to wear,_ _Yet, far away's the country, and perilous the sea,_ _And some may think far fairer the red rose on her tree._

_Far away's the country, and strange the way to fare,_ _Far away's the country--O would that I were there!_ _It's on and on past Whinny Muir and over Brig o' Dread._ _And you shall pluck blue roses the day that you are dead._

"THE NICHT ATWEEN THE SANCTS AN' SOULS"

ALL-SOULS: KATHERINE TYNAN

The door of Heaven is on the latch To-night, and many a one is fain To go home for one night's watch With his love again.

Oh, where the father and mother sit There's a drift of dead leaves at the door Like pitter-patter of little feet That come no more.

Their thoughts are in the night and cold, Their tears are heavier than the clay, But who is this at the threshold So young and gay?

They are come from the land o' the young, They have forgotten how to weep; Words of comfort on the tongue, And a kiss to keep.

They sit down and they stay awhile, Kisses and comfort none shall lack; At morn they steal forth with a smile And a long look back.

ALL-SAINTS' EVE: LIZETTE WOODWORTH REESE

Oh, when the ghosts go by, Under the empty trees, Here in my house I sit and cry, My head upon my knees!

Innumerable, white, Like mist they fill the square; The bolt is drawn, the latch made tight, The shutter barred there.

There walks one small and glad, New to the churchyard clod; My little lad, my little lad, A single year with G.o.d!

I sit and hide my head Until they all are past, Under the empty trees the dead That go full soft and fast.

Up to my chamber dim, Back to my bed I plod; Oh, would I were a ghost with him, And faring back to G.o.d!

A DREAM: WILLIAM ALLINGHAM

I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night; I went to the window to see the sight; All the dead that ever I knew Going one by one and two by two.

On they pa.s.s'd and on they pa.s.s'd; Townsfellows all, from first to last; Born in the moonlight of the lane, Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.

Schoolmates, marching as when they play'd At soldiers once--but now more staid; Those were the strangest sight to me Who were drown'd, I knew, in the open sea.

Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak, too; Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to; Some but a day in their churchyard bed; Some that I had not known were dead.

A long long crowd--where each seem'd lonely, Yet of them all there was one, one only, Raised a head or looked my way; She linger'd a moment--she might not stay.

How long since I saw that fair pale face!

Ah! Mother dear! might I only place My head on thy breast, a moment to rest, While thy hand on my tearful cheek were press'd!

On, on, a moving bridge they made Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men; Many long-forgot, but remember'd then,

And first there came a bitter laughter; A sound of tears a moment after, And then a music so lofty and gay, That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it if I may.

THE NEIGHBORS: THEODOSIA GARRISON

_At first c.o.c.k-crow_ _The ghosts must go_ _Back to their quiet graves below._

Against the distant striking of the clock I heard the crowing c.o.c.k, And I arose and threw the window wide; Long, long before the setting of the moon, And yet I knew they must be pa.s.sing soon-- My neighbors who had died-- Back to their narrow green-roofed homes that wait Beyond the churchyard gate.

I leaned far out and waited--all the world Was like a thing impearled, Mysterious and beautiful and still: The crooked road seemed one the moon might lay, Our little village slept in Quaker gray, And gray and tall the poplars on the hill; And then far off I heard the c.o.c.k--and then My neighbors pa.s.sed again.

At first it seemed a white cloud, nothing more, Slow drifting by my door, Or gardened lilies swaying in the wind; Then suddenly each separate face I knew, The tender lovers drifting two and two, Old, peaceful folk long since pa.s.sed out of mind, And little children--one whose hand held still An earth-grown daffodil.

And here I saw one pausing for a s.p.a.ce To lift a wistful face Up to a certain window where there dreamed A little brood left motherless; and there One turned to where the unploughed fields lay bare; And others lingering pa.s.sed--but one there seemed So over glad to haste, she scarce could wait To reach the churchyard gate!

The farrier's little maid who loved too well And died--I may not tell How glad she seemed. My neighbors, young and old, With backward glances lingered as they went; Only upon one face was all content, A sorrow comforted--a peace untold.