Queer are the ways of a man I know:
He comes and
In a careworn craze,
And looks at the
In the seaward
With moveless
And face and gaze,
Then turns to go…And what does he see when he gazes so?
They say he sees as an instant
More clear than today,
A sweet soft
That once was in
By that briny green;
Yes, notes
Warm, 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
Does he see this sight,
But
In his brain-day, night,
As if on the
It were drawn rose bright-Yea, far from that
Does 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
In his rapt
On that shagged and
Atlantic spot,
And as when first
Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.
