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 were drawn rose bright -
  Yea, far from that shore
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.