Poetry Archives

They came in the hush of the midnight,
  In the glare of the noonday start
Out from the graves we made them—
  The graves we made in the heart.

There is love with its fickle fancies;
  Its grave was so wide and deep,
And we heaped the mound with oblivion,
  But the soul of love could not sleep.

And hate! ah, we buried it deeper
  Than all the rest of the train;
But one word through memory flashing,
  And its ghost comes back again.

There are phantoms of sunshiny hours
  That fled when the summer time fled,
And specters that mock while they haunt us,
  Long buried, but never dead.

And ever and ever an hour
  Will come that the heart-wraiths control,
Till down from Eternity’s tower
  A banshee shall ring for the soul.