The Little Ghost
Broad, high yew hedges flank the flowers, and border
An old, smooth lawn where, fashioned grimly stiff.
Two knights — in close-clipped box — keep ancient order,
O'er shaven dragon, hound and hippogriff;
And there,
When the June air
At dusk is cool and fair.
And the great roses strengthen on their stalks,
Down the long path, beset
With heaven-scented, haunting mignonette.
The gardeners say,
A little grey
Ghost-lady walks!
I haven't seen her, haven't heard her legend.
Pale little shade, only the rumour tells
That 'tis her wont to wander to the hedge-end,
And vanish near the Canterbury Bells;
And so
I do not know
What sends her to and fro —
Murder, may be, or broken heart, or gold.
I like to fancy most
That she is just some little lady's ghost
Who loved her flowers
And quiet hours
In Junes of old!