ALL ghouls and ghosts shall Science lay? Not ours! Time is our Spectre-king. By bog and boulder He drives his bleating flock, once rosy hours, And still he shuffles on, and we wax older. Alison, near those freshets of your smiles Bloom gold-winged iris, meadow-sweet like foam, And pansies shy amid the Enchanted Isles Where no ghost walks, no rueful phantoms roam. A white bird flutes beside that singing river: Hark to its notes! Be glad, be brave, obey them! The gay hearts and the true are fair for ever; Their ghosts turn flowers; like angels they array them. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ABOVE AND WITHIN by DAVID IGNATOW TRIFLE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: ALBERT SCHIRDING by EDGAR LEE MASTERS APPELLATE JURISDICTION by MARIANNE MOORE WALT WHITMAN by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON |