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.