Classic Poem

Often I've wanted to be half a ghost,
Haunting familiar friends, unheard but hearing:
Silent among their silences. For most
I like such guesthood, freed, unfelt, unfearing.

Unfelt? Who knows? . . . If shriven self survives,
Might not a hint be given, a warning uttered
By ghostly vigilance, to troubled lives?
Might not their intuitions be half unshuttered,
And, like a dusty sunbeam on the gloom,
Death send one shaft of radiance to that room?
Unvouched are visions. But sleep-forsaken faith
Can win unworlded miracles and rejoice,
Welcoming, at haggard ends of night, — what wraith —
What angel — what beloved and banished voice?