Queer are the ways of a man I know:
He comes and stands
In a careworn craze
And looks at the sands
And the seaward haze
With moveless hands
And face and gaze
Then turns to go...
And what does he see when he gazes so?

They say he sees as an instant thing
More clear than to-day
A sweet soft scene
That once was in play
By that briny green;
Yes, notes alway
Warm, real, and keen
What his back years bring—
A phantom of his own figuring

Of this vision of his they might say more:
Not only there
Does he see this sight
But everywhere
In his brain–day, night
As if on the air
It wеre drawn rose bright–
Yea, far from that shorе
Does he carry this vision of heretofore:
A ghost-girl-rider. And though, toil-tried
He withers daily
Time touches her not
But she still rides gaily
In his rapt thought
On that shagged and shaly
Atlantic spot
And as when first eyed
Draws rein and sings to the swing of the tide