That long ago place mist enshrouded with ice
When I turned and glimpsed for the last time
The old yestercentury life that was so nice
Before it slowly decomposed with burnt-lime
In my heart and soul, and, in a way, for real.
They are gone, even though you see their shade,
They have long belonged to the single low peal
Of the churchyard bell; the hole which is made
To steal them away. And do you feel
The ghost of Christmas past?
"I think I saw him for the first time," you said.
At least you saw him, I thought; though you are
Unaware that our friend is nonetheless dead.
Why do you stare? What do you see afar ... afar?
We again all meet on the eve of Christmas Eve.
Hosts
Roasts
Toasts
Ghosts
..........
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