Page:Carroll - Phantasmagoria and other poems (1869).djvu/157



, said the dying man, and sighed, To that complaining tone— Like sprite condemned, each eventide, To walk the world alone: At sunset, when the air is still, I hear it creep from yonder hill; It breathes upon me, dead and chill, A moment, and is gone.

My son, it minds me of a day Left half a life behind, That I have prayed to put away For ever from my mind.