THE PHANTOM HORSEWOMAN

Queer are the ways of a man I know: 

He comes and stands 

In a careworn craze, 

And looks at the sands 

And the seaward haze 

With moveless hands 

And face and gaze, 

Then turns to go - 

And what does he see when he gazes so? 

They say he sees as an instant thing 

More clear than to-day, 

A sweet soft scene 

That once was in play 

By that briny green; 

Yes, notes alway 

Warm, real, and keen, 

What his back years bring -

A phantom of his own figuring. 

Of this vision of his they might say more: 

Not only there 

Does he see this sight, 

But everywhere 

In his brain - day, night, 

As if on the air 

It were drawn rose bright - 

Yea, far from that shore 

Does he carry this vision of heretofore: 

A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, 

He withers daily, 

Time touches her not, 

But she still rides gaily 

In his rapt thought 

On that shagged and shaly 

Atlantic spot, 

And as when first eyed 

Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.