Classic Poem

What, Enid, was your soul's mystic hour?
Was it in childish days when, it is said,
Following the truly Spiritistic aim
You made the sort of noise to wake the Dead?

When you, too, turned the tables upside down
Dear Poltergeist, and threw the chairs about
“Manifestations” sceptics may dispute
But yours it was impossible to doubt.

None shall dispute your Spirits, whence they came,
That they were high and never could be low
Though all the Grays like spectres turn to White
When you start haunting houses, we shall know.

And you and I, like thin and tenuous shades,
Well nigh invisible to mortal eyes
Might meet once more at Top Meadow tomorrow
Before you vanish—and oh materialise!