Mary Gilmore

A Little Ghost

The moonlight flutters from the sky
 To meet her at the door,
A little ghost, whose steps have passed
 Across the creaking floor.

And rustling vines that lightly tap
 Against the window-pane,
Throw shadows on the white-washed walls
 To blot them out again.

The moonlight leads her as she goes
 Across a narrow plain,
By all the old, familiar ways
 That know her steps again.

And through the scrub it leads her on
 And brings her to the creek,
But by the broken dam she stops
 And seems as she would speak.

She moves her lips, but not a sound
 Ripples the silent air;
She wrings her little hands, ah, me!
 The sadness of despair!

While overhead the black-duck's wing
 Cuts like a flash upon
The startled air, that scarcely shrinks
 Ere he afar is gone.

And curlews wake, and wailing cry
 Cur-lew! cur-lew! cur-lew!
Till all the Bush, with nameless dread
 Is pulsing through and through.

The moonlight leads her back again
 And leaves her at the door,
A little ghost whose steps have passed
 Across the creaking floor.

Good-Night

Good-night! . . . my darling sleeps so sound
She cannot hear me where she lies;
White lilies watch the closed eyes,
Red roses guard the folded hands.

Good-night! O woman who once lay
Upon my breast, so still, so sweet
That all my pulses, throbbing, beat
And flamed — I cannot touch you now.

Good-night, my own! God knows we loved
So well, that all things else seemed slight —
We part forever in the night,
We two poor souls who loved so well.