If I were ferryman in Charon's place,
And ran that crazy scow with perilous skill,
I should be so worn out with keeping trace
Of gibbering ghosts and bidding them sit still,
If you should come with daisies in your hands,
Strewing their petals on the sombre stream,--
"He will come," and "He won't come," down the lands
Of pallid reverie and ghostly dream,--
I would let every clamouring shape stand there,
And give its shadowy lungs free vent in vain,
While you with earthly roses in your hair,
And I grown young at sight of you again,
Went down the stream once more at half-past seven
To find some brand-new continent of heaven.