By grief too much engrossed,
Nor for a ghost of color turn
The color of a ghost!

"Again, farewell, my Phoebe dear!
Once more a last adieu!
For I must make myself as scarce
As swans of sable hue."
From black to gray, from gray to nought
The shape began to fade--
And like an egg, though not so white,
The ghost was newly laid!"


THE GHOST: THOMAS HOOD

_A Very Serious Ballad_

In Middle Row, some years ago,
There lived one Mr. Brown;
And many folks considered him
The stoutest man in town.

But Brown and stout will both wear out--
One Friday he died hard,
And left a widow'd wife to mourn
At twenty pence a yard.

Now widow B. in two short months
Thought mourning quite a tax;