  There is no rest for them, even in Death: As life had harried them from lair to lair, Still with unquiet eyes and furtive breath, They haunt the secret by-ways of the air. They know Earth's outer regions like a street, And on pale ships that make no port of call, They pass in silence when they chance to meet, Saying no names, telling no tales at all. Yet, on November nights of wind and storm, Shivered and driven from their ghostly shores, They peer in lighted windows glowing warm, And thrill again at dear, remembered doors— But they are wary listeners in the night: Speak but a name, and they are off in flight. |
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