Ghostly spirit of my Father,
I have much to tell; I want to speak to you,
To see the dead pale white of your reticent eyes,
As you stand before me in your form
Or in a temporary shepherd’s disguise.
I cannot tell these things to your grave
Where neglected weeds and thorns
In unchecked abundance prosper.
I beg a few minutes’ meeting, if you will,
Wake me up in a thin hour at night; come like Casper.
Or is it that your ghost forsakes us,
A family from which you, by death, was removed?
Is it that you think of me, who never cried,
As being of a temper that was never moved? Surely,
You once being a banker, you should know the banknote from counterfeit.
Just to see the imprint of your once-held face
And to share with you what I’ve been up to since.
I’ve been up to much, as you are already aware,
But, for me to tell you with my own words
Watching you, as I speak, faintly sitting there.