James Allan Mackereth

THE MAN THAT WAS A GHOSTGold light across the golden coomb;The sun went west with horns of fire;Athwart the sweet, sea-breathing roomThe swallows swooped; the village spireGlowed red against a gleam of broom;While earth its scented secrets told,There, silent, sunset-aureoled,Sat Ioläus, mild and old.In distance large the moving shipsSailed on into the evening skies.He gazed, and saw not. In eclipseHe... more...