John F. McCullagh
On a hot August night
She appeared, the lost soul.
The sweltering evening
turning suddenly cold.
She was dressed in the clothes
She had worn when she died.
A bullet hole in her temple,
a handgun by her side.
A beautiful Stranger
at the foot of my bed.
A faint smell of lilac
from a specter long dead.
The Ghost didn’t speak,
At least not that I heard,
Nor could I, gripped by terror,
Utter one word.
World weary and sad
said her facial expression.
A Love gone all wrong
was my honest impression.
Then she was gone;
Not a glimmer remained.
The warm summer evening
My stateroom reclaimed.
It was cold where she died
On the steps to the beach;
Her spirit is restless
and seems never to sleep.
Oh beautiful stranger
None can say why you died
But the coroner ruled
That it was suicide.
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Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Room 3312 by John F. McCullagh )
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(25 July 1956)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
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