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.