The House of the Trees
& Other Poems

by Ethelwyn Wetherald



WHEN I see the ghost of night
    Stealing through my window-pane,
Silken sleep and silver light
    Struggle for my soul in vain;
Silken sleep all balmily
    Breathes upon my lids oppressed,
Till I sudden start to see
    Ghostly fingers on my breast.

White and skyey visitant,
    Bringing beauty such as stings
All my inner soul to pant
    After undiscovered things,
Spare me this consummate pain!
    Silken weavings intercreep
Round my senses once again,
    I am mortal—let me sleep. [Page 5]