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ISSUE:  Autumn 1925

Ghosts are the only lovely things:
Ghost of a bell that wakes and rings
When silence all the belfry keeps
And the old bellman deeply sleeps;
Ghost of a ship, green fathoms drowned,
Where wraith-like fishes peer around;
Ghosts of flowers that long since died
In grassy fields where crickets hide
And winds come seeking every
May The buds they shook on a golden day;
Ghost of a footfall on the floor;
And ghosts that haunt a broken door.


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