Ghost in a Window on the Third Story
She carries herself with a somber but ever-graceful gait;
And behind a trefoil window does she mournfully wait.
Deep chestnut and raven are her long locks of hair;
Ivory and pallid, her earnest face is fair.
Here, in this dwelling, she is bound to her purgatory—
Where her poor mind has become a ceaseless mortuary.
No mortal can hear this apparition’s lamentations;
Nor shall one understand this ghost’s soundless implorations.
Touching the thin glass with her hand and pondering,
She looks outside and dreams many dreams—wondering.
The chambers and halls have only candelabra unlit,
And in a tufted yet tattered red-velvet chair does she sit.
Spiders and bats are her fellow occupants,
Who hearken as she sings to them and enchants.
In silvery moonlight does she materialize—
Living as a momentary haunt one vaguely spies.
With gloomy affection might she wave to those passing by
Reminding all she never formally said goodbye.
Pulling apart the drapes, this spectral maiden stares—
Nearly floating in the old-fashioned dress she wears.
Beyond midnight’s shade shall one hear her serenade
To all adrift and doleful souls who are afraid.
At the third story window does she frequently pace
Before evaporating and leaving not one trace…
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