The Ghost

In tears upon the Twilight Coast
There dwelt a melancholy ghost,
Whose sorrow was not blind
In so dark a troubled mind.
Death had become his only friend:
O’er such light the scythe did bend
And what gifts to so low a being
Would the dark of here-after bring.
Comes soft the rushing tidal storm,
And shifts the ghost’s transparent form,
His tale of woe to my ears untold,
Though remembrance was wrought of gold.
Fades now the burden he once bore
As he sails to the farther shore.