Ghosts of all my lovely sins,
 Who attend too well my pillow,
Gay the wanton rain begins;
 Hide the limp and tearful willow.

Turn aside your eyes and ears,
 Trail away your robes of sorrow,
You shall have my further years-
 You shall walk with me tomorrow.

I am sister to the rain;
 Fey and sudden and unholy,
Petulant at the windowpane,
 Quickly lost, remembered slowly.

I have lived with shades, a shade;
 I am hung with graveyard flowers.
Let me be tonight arrayed
 In the silver of the showers.

Every fragile thing shall rust;
 When another April passes
I may be a furry dust,
 Sifting through the brittle grasses.

All sweet sins shall be forgot;
 Who will live to tell their siring?
Hear me now, nor let me rot
 Wistful still, and still aspiring.

Ghosts of dear temptations, heed;
 I am frail, be you forgiving.
See you not that I have need
 To be living with the living?

Sail, tonight, the Styx's breast;
 Glide among the dim processions
Of the exquisite unblest,
 Spirits of my shared transgressions,

Roam with young Persephone.
 Plucking poppies for your slumber . . .
With the morrow, there shall be
 One more wraith among your number.