A Little Ghost

The moonlight flutters from the sky
   To meet her at the door,
A little ghost, whose steps have passed
   Across the creaking floor.

And rustling vines that lightly tap
   Against the window-pane,
Throw shadows on the white-washed walls
   To blot them out again.

The moonlight leads her as she goes
   Across a narrow plain,
By all the old, familiar ways
   That know her steps again.

And through the scrub it leads her on
   And brings her to the creek,
But by the broken dam she stops
   And seems as she would speak.

She moves her lips, but not a sound
   Ripples the silent air;
She wrings her little hands, ah, me!
   The sadness of despair!

While overhead the black-duck's wing
   Cuts like a flash upon
The startled air, that scarcely shrinks
   Ere he afar is gone.

And curlews wake, and wailing cry
   Cur-lew! cur-lew! cur-lew!
Till all the Bush, with nameless dread
   Is pulsing through and through.

The moonlight leads her back again
   And leaves her at the door,
A little ghost whose steps have passed
   Across the creaking floor.

by Mary Gilmore

Other poems of MARY GILMORE (1)

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