In the grey tumult of these after years <br /> Oft silence falls; the incessant wranglers part; <br />And less-than-echoes of remembered tears <br /> Hush all the loud confusion of the heart; <br />And a shade, through the toss'd ranks of mirth and crying <br /> Hungers, and pains, and each dull passionate mood, -- <br />Quite lost, and all but all forgot, undying, <br /> Comes back the ecstasy of your quietude. <br /> <br />So a poor ghost, beside his misty streams, <br />Is haunted by strange doubts, evasive dreams, <br /> Hints of a pre-Lethean life, of men, <br />Stars, rocks, and flesh, things unintelligible, <br /> And light on waving grass, he knows not when, <br />And feet that ran, but where, he cannot tell.<br /><br />Rupert Brooke<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/hauntings/
