The Phantom Horsewoman.

Queer are the ways of a man I know: He comes and stands In a careworn craze, And looks at the sands And in the seaward haze With moveless hands And face and gaze, Then turns to go... And what does he see when he gazes so? They say he sees as an instant thing More clear than today, A sweet soft scene That once was in play By that briny green; Yes, notes alway Warm, real, and keen, What his back years bring- A phantom of his own figuring. Of this vision of his they might say more: Not only there Does he see this sight, But everywhere In his brain-day, night, As if on the air It were drawn rose bright- Yea, far from that shore Does he carry this vision of heretofore: A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried, He withers daily, Time touches her not, But she still rides gaily In his rapt thought On that shagged and shaly Atlantic spot, And as when first eyed Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide.