Thomas Vaughan Jones
A Ghost Story
The curfew bell rang out its lonely call.
The world fell fast asleep at close of day,
and as the shades of night began to fall
some ancient phantoms ushered out to play.
The maid looked through the window of her house.
The house in which her parents lay asleep.
So quiet she, and timid as a mouse,
until she heard the restless spirits weep.
“Come play with us, my dear, the time is now,
The hustle of the day has long since passed.
What sorrow leaves its stain upon your brow?
No earthly love was ever meant to last.
Now Passion dies and love has grown cold.
There is no comfort in the crying game
Why wait until your heart is sick and old
and time has stamped its mark upon your frame”
Her face turned white, a deathly shade of pale.
A manic gleam developed in her eye;
Responding to the spirits’ plaintive wail
her throat closed in the essence of a sigh
She left the comfort of her feather bed.
The spectral throng drew round in high delight.
With morning light her soul had long since fled,
abandoned to the shadows of the night.
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Comments about this poem (A Ghost Story by Thomas Vaughan Jones )
William Carlos Williams
(17 September 1883 – 4 March 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
Ono no Komachi
(c. 825—c. 900))
William Butler Yeats
(13 June 1865 – 28 January 1939)
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