SOMETIMES the ghosts forgotten go Along the hill-top way, And with long scythes of silver mow Meadows of moonlit hay, Until the cocks of Cotswold crow The coming of the day. There's Tony Turkletob who died When he could drink no more, And Uncle Heritage, the pride Of eighteen-twenty-four, And Ebenezer Barleytide, And others half a score. They fold in phantom pens, and plough Furrows without a share, And one will milk a faery cow, And one will stare and stare, And whistle ghostly tunes that now Are not sung anywhere. The moon goes down on Oakridge lea, The other world's astir, The Cotswold farmers silently Go back to sepulchre, The sleeping watchdogs wake, and see No ghostly harvester. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BUT NOT TO ME by SARA TEASDALE EPIPSYCHIDION by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ODES: BOOK 1: ODE 18. TO THE HON. FRANCIS EARL OF HUNTINGDON by MARK AKENSIDE THE LOAN by SABINE BARING-GOULD THOU LIGHT OF LIFE by BERNARD OF CLAIRVAUX |