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The Ghost to his Ladye Love

Fun, IX - 14th August 1869



Illustration by Gilbert  
Fair Phantom, come! The moon's awake,
The owl hoots gaily from its brake,
  The blithesome bat's a-wing.
Come, soar to yonder silent clouds;
The ether teems with peopled shrouds:
We'll fly the lightsome spectre crowds,
  Thou cloudy, clammy thing!

Though there are others, spectre mine,
With eyes as hollow, quite, as thine,
  That thrill me from above —
Whose lips are quite as deathly pale,
Whose voices rival thine in wail
When, riding on the joyous gale,
  They breathe sepulchral love.

Still, there's a modest charm in thee,
That causes thee to seem to be
  More pure than others are —
Though rich in calico and bone,
Thou art not beautiful alone —
For thou art also good, my own!
  And that is better, far.

United, we'll defy alarms:
A death-time in each other's arms
We'll pass — and fear no dearth
  Of jollity: when Morpheus flits
O'er mortal eyes, we'll whet our wits,
And frighten people into fits
  Who did us harm on earth!

Come, essence of a slumb'ring soul,
Throw off thy maidenly control
  Un-shroud thy ghastly face!
Give me thy foggy lips divine,
And let me press my mist to thine,
And fold thy nothingness in mine,
  In one long damp embrace.
  [She does.

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