Summer Night

FROM the warm garden in the summer night All faintest odors came: the tuberose white Glimmered in its dark bed, and many a bloom Invisibly breathed spices on the gloom. It stirred a trouble in the man's dull heart, A vexing, mute unrest: 'Now what thou art, Tell me!' he said in anger. Something sighed, 'I am the poor ghost of a ghost that died In years gone by.' And he recalled of old A passion dead—long dead, even then—that came And haunted many a night like this, the same In their dim hush above the fragrant mould And glimmering flowers, and troubled all his breast. 'Rest!' then he cried; 'perturbëd spirit, rest!'