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!