The sky is overcast,
The wind wails loud;
Grey ghosts go driving past
In driving cloud;
And, in the beating rain
Against the window-pane
Dead fingers beat again,
Dead faces crowd.
O, grey ghosts, waiting still,
My fire burns bright;
Without is cold and chill,
Here, warm and light.
And would you have me creep
Outside to you, and sweep
With you along the steep
Of the grey night?
Nay, once I held you dear,
Before you fled
Adown the shadowy, drear
Paths of the dead;
But now the churchyard mould
Has left you all too cold,
Your hands I cannot hold,
Your touch I dread.
Yet linger patiently,
Ghosts of the past,
Soon there shall come to me
That morn's chill blast
That calls me too to tread
Those ways of doubt and dread,
And numbered with the dead
To lie at last.