Rupert Chawner Brooke

Hauntings

 In the grey tumult of these after years
   Oft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part;
 And less-than-echoes of remembered tears
   Hush all the loud confusion of the heart;
 And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying
   Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood,--
 Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying,
   Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude.

 So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams,
 Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams,
   Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men,
 Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible,
   And light on waving grass, he knows not when,
 And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.