You say you saw a ghost, in the house, at night,
Standing stiff and chilly in evanescent silver,
In your room, near the bed where your grandfather died.
But I saw ghosts, hundreds of them, dancing,
Out of doors, by day, in dazzle of sunlight,
Climbing through the air of a clearing near the river,
Flying dizzily there in a brief puff of the breeze,
Yes, hundreds of ghosts, where a little while ago
Died hundreds of purple blooms of the thistle.
— Marguerite Wilkinson (1883 – 1928)
See more excellent poems in Sabio’s Poetry Anthology
Instead of taking the path of a ghost story, she delightfully uses “ghost” to bring us back to everyday life.
More info on Marguerite Wilkinson:
- More of her poems: AllPoetry.com (4), PoetryHunter.com (4), GoodReads (1),
- Born Marguerite Ogden Bigelow in Halifax, Nova Scotia, Nov. 15, 1883. Educated at Northwestern University. Married James Wilkinson, 1909.
My related posts: