Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/A Ghost at the Opera

by Sarah Piatt

A GHOST AT THE OPERA. [AFTER THE CIVIL WAR—IN KENTUCKY.]

It was, I think, the Lover of the play.
 He, from stage-incantations, turned his head,
And one remembered motion shook away
 The whole mock-fairy land, are raised the dead.

I, in an instant, saw the scenery change.
 Trees grey with moss and time before me grew;
Late roses shivered, beautiful and strange;
 One red geranium scented all the dew.

A sudden comet flung its golden veil
 Around the frightened stars; a sudden light
Stood, moon-shaped, in the East; a sudden wail
 From troubled music smote the spectral night.

Then blue, sweet shadows fell from flower-like eyes,
 And purplish darkness drooped on careless hair,
And lips most lovely———oh, what empty sighs
 Breathed to the air for something less than air!

I might have touched that fair and real ghost,
 He laughed so lightly, looked so bright and brave,
So all unlike that thin and wavering host
 Who walk unquiet from the quiet grave.

Myself another ghost, as vain and young,
 And nearer Heaven than now by years and years,
My heart like some quick bird of morning sung
 On fluttering wings above all dust and tears.

But some great lightning made a long red glare.
 Black-plumed and brigand-like I saw him stand—
What ghastly sights, what noises in the air!
 How sharp the sword seemed in his fevered hand!

He looked at me across the fiery field;
 The South was in his blood, his soul, his face.
Imperious despair, too lost to yield;
 Gave a quick glory to a desperate grace.

I saw him fall, I saw the deadly stain
 Upon his breast—he cared not what was won.
The ghost was in the land of ghosts again.
 The curtain fell, the phantom play was done.