Up the wide wind-swept avenue A girl and her lover walk tonight -- They are not real, they are wraiths, They cast no shadow in the light. A stinging winter wind is out, They are too happy to be cold, The street lamps make a path for them And pave the empty street with gold. Lightly they tread to an unheard flute, They are too happy to be talking -- Hush, they are wraiths, they are not real, Two gay young ghosts have gone out walking. Into a doorway arched and dim He draws her, and the darkness there Knows if she quivers to a kiss On lips and eyes and wind-blown hair. Now they are fading, they are gone! Often on nights like these I see The slight, triumphant, wilful thing, A wraith, the girl I used to be. |