Classic Poem

What is a ghost? " It is something white,
(And I guess it goes barefooted, too,)
That comes from the graveyard in the night,
When the doors are lock'd, and breaks right through. "
What does it do?

" Oh, it frightens people ever so much,
And goes away when the chickens crow;
And — doesn't steal any spoons, or touch
One thing that is n't its own, you know. "
Who told you so?

" Somebody — every body, almost;
Or I knew, myself, when this world begun.
Not even a General could kill a ghost — —
I wish the Lord had never made one.
They hate the sun! "

No, sweetest of all wee brown-eyed girls,
They love the light — 't is the dark they fear;
Love riches and power, love laces and pearls;
Love — all the preacher calls vanity here.
This much is clear.

" Do they love to be dead? " I can but tell
That few of them greatly love to die:
Perhaps they doubt whether all is well
In the place where ghosts — — yes, " up in the sky. "
You wonder why?

They love their clothes (and want to keep dress'd:)
Whether new and prettily white and red,
Or gray and ragged, 't is hard, at best,
To take them off — though the prayers are said —
And go to bed.