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"To-morrow," said they, strong with hope,
 And dwelt upon the pleasant way:
"To-morrow," cried they one and all,
 While no one spoke of yesterday.
Their life stood full at blessed noon;
 I, only I, had passed away:
"To-morrow and to-day," they cried;
 I was of yesterday.

I shivered comfortless, but cast
 No chill across the tablecloth;
I all-forgotten shivered, sad
 To stay and yet to part how loth:
I passed from the familiar room,
 I who from love had passed away,
Like the remembrance of a guest
 That tarrieth but a day.

THE POOR GHOST.

"OH whence do you come, my dear friend, to me,
With your golden hair all fallen below your knee,
And your face as white as snowdrops on the lea,
And your voice as hollow as the hollow sea?

"From the other world I come back to you,
My locks are uncurled with dripping drenching dew.
You know the old, whilst I know the new:
But to-morrow you shall know this too."