The Young Ghosts

To old Verona, any dusk in spring,
Up the dim, twisted road comes Juliet,
Her haunted orchard close remembering.
Some silver weather, when the panes are wet,
Small Arthur drifts back to his mother's knee,
Where she sits weeping, London April-mad
Below her, and her ladies, two and three,
Sighing about her, tall, and palely sad,
Oh, the young ghosts, in the young year come back,
To Newburyport, to York, and Norfolk town,
To Springfield, Berkeley, little country Ware!
Some old house calls them, high above the wrack,
Packed with their lost springtime, their new renown—
To keep away were more than they could bear!