I can not seem to lose this little ghost. It will not heed my stock of ancient lore . . . Not even blood-runes on a sea-soaked post Or holy water sprinkled on the floor. Oh, I have buried it a thousand ways . . . A thousand times . . . in wind, in fire, in sleet, But still it pitter-patters through my days, Weaving patterns with its little feet. At night when it has followed me to bed, I can not sleep . . . it never will be still. I lie there watching this that should be dead Dancing back and forth across the sill. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MY HAPPINESS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON SOUVENIR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON HERO-WORSHIP; SONNET by AMY LOWELL HOMAGE TO SEXTUS PROPERTIUS: 5 by EZRA POUND IN TALL GRASS by CARL SANDBURG ESSAY: AT NIGHT THE AUTOPORTRAIT AT NIGHT by ELENI SIKELIANOS |