OFT, in the silence of the night,When the lonely moon rides high,When wintry winds are whistling,And we hear the owl's shrill cry,In the quiet, dusky chamber,By the flickering firelight,Rising up between two sleepers,Comes a spirit all in white.A winsome little ghost it is,Rosy-cheeked, and bright of eye;With yellow curls all breaking looseFrom the small cap pushed awry.Up it climbs among the pillows,For the "big dark" brings no dread,And a baby's boundless fancyMakes a kingdom of a bed.A fearless little ghost it is;Safe the night seems as the day;The moon is but a gentle face,And the sighing winds are gay.The solitude is full of friends,And the hour brings no regrets;For, in this happy little soul,Shines a sun that never sets.A merry little ghost it is,Dancing gayly by itself,On the flowery counterpane,Like a tricksy household elf;Nodding to the fitful shadows,As they flicker on the wall;Talking to familiar pictures,Mimicking the owl's shrill call.A thoughtful little ghost if is;And, when lonely gambols tire,With chubby hands on chubby knees,It sits winking at the fire.Fancies innocent and lovelyShine before those baby-eyes, --Endless fields of dandelions,Brooks, and birds, and butterflies.A loving little ghost it is:When crept into its nest,Its hand on father's shoulder laid,Its head on mother's breast,It watches each familiar face,With a tranquil, trusting eye;And, like a sleepy little bird,Sings its own soft lullaby.Then those who feigned to sleep before,Lest baby play till dawn,Wake and watch their folded flower --Little rose without a thorn.And, in the silence of the night,The hearts that love it mostPray tenderly above its sleep,"God bless our little ghost! I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked;The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked.And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone—I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hungIn their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do—and oh!She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!She bent above my favourite mint With conscious garden grace,She smiled and smiled—there was no hint Of sadness in her face.She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show,And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bareShe paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.  The moonlight flutters from the skyTo meet her at the door,A little ghost, whose steps have passedAcross the creaking floor.And rustling vines that lightly tapAgainst the window-pane,Throw shadows on the white-washed wallsTo blot them out again.The moonlight leads her as she goesAcross a narrow plain,By all the old, familiar waysThat know her steps again.And through the scrub it leads her onAnd brings her to the creek,But by the broken dam she stopsAnd seems as she would speak.She moves her lips, but not a soundRipples the silent air;She wrings her little hands, ah, me!The sadness of despair!While overhead the black-duck's wingCuts like a flash uponThe startled air, that scarcely shrinksEre he afar is gone.And curlews wake, and wailing cryCur-lew! cur-lew! cur-lew!Till all the Bush, with nameless dreadIs pulsing through and through. Ghosts-

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