Ghosts

There are ghosts in the room.     As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there         They come out of the gloom,     And they stand at my side and they lean on my chair.         There's the ghost of a Hope     That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.         In her hand is the rope     That strangled her life out.    Hope was slain long ago.         But her ghost comes to-night,     With its skeleton face and expressionless eyes,         And it stands in the light,     And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.         There's the ghost of a Joy,     A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,         And the hands that destroy     Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.         There's the ghost of a Love,     Born with joy, reared with hope, died in pain and unrest,         But he towers above     All the others - this ghost:    yet a ghost at the best.         I am weary, and fain     Would forget all these dead:    but the gibbering host         Make my struggle in vain,     In each shadowy corner there lurketh a ghost.