THROUGH the imponderable twilight tumbles
A fuzzy mass, uncertain at the edges.
This, so they tell me, is the ghost that grumbles,
The specter that goes backwards through the hedges,
The goblin garrulous but rarely witty,
The harmless phantom and the wraith endearing,
That hops around and sings a tuneless ditty
And interrupts himself with bursts of cheering;
A spirit fairly lovable, and decent.
Some say he is the shade of Charles the Martyr;
Others incline to a demise more recent,
Claiming he is a Mr. Eustace Carter,
A man who flourished here in eighteen-fifty
And fell into a pond while trapping rabbits.
At all events, although a trifle shifty,
The specter has few irritating habits,
Never comes after dark, but in the twilight,
And rarely frightens people, or not badly,
But sits in summer evenings on the skylight,
Scratching himself, and singing, rather sadly.