Here, where men's eyes were empty and as bright As the blank windows set in glaring brick,
When the wind strengthens from the sea — and night Drops like a fog and makes the breath come thick;
By the deserted paths, the vacant halls,
She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost
Out of the stillness of her palace wall,
Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms
She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,
Some ghosts are women,neither abstract nor pale,their breasts as limp as killed fish
Not witches, but ghostswho come, moving their useless armslike forsaken servants
Not all ghosts are women,
I have seen others;fat, white-bellied me...
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in themoonlight flies,
And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies -When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogsbay the moon,
Then is...
my life story
is littered;
with the ghosts;
of golden;
It sifts from Leaden Sieves -
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road -