The Keeping-room

I
The thorn that by the wayside grows
Comforts the pilgrim with a rose.
Do thou, like him, to charm thy gloom
Perceive the sweetness of this room.

II
If thou perchance shouldst see a face
Smile at thee from an empty space,
Or feel some presence, do not fear,
Those ghosts are kind that loiter here.

III
I met a stranger in this room,
He moved about and seemed at home.
"Good sir," said I, "what dost thou here?"
He turned a pleasant face and said,
"A hundred years have I been dead."