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 a 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 its 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.
 

Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850 – 1919) was an American poet and journalist.

To read more poems, click here.