How shall a ghost from the Père-la-Chaise Greeting send to a vanished love? How shall he struggle the sods above And merrily chatter of by-gone days? Woe is me! Through the matted grass That grows by my head (where the gamin plays In the silent alleys of Père-la-Chaise) Never a soul like mine can pass. Madame, if spark of life be thine, List to a ghostly Valentine. Seventy years in a coffin pent Little of beauty have I to show, Seventy years will alter one so With a coffin lid for a firmament And the inky darkness night and day; With the murmur of all the restless dead With the hum of Paris overhead, "What wonder, then, if l fall away ... In place of a heart my white ribs shine . .. Pity a skeleton Valentine Bony palms on your hand would close, Words of love from a fleshless jaw, Might trouble the bravest soul with awe, Madame if once again I rose. I am not pleasant to look upon,- (Never a thing on the Earth today Is fouler favoured than Desmarets) For, verily, most of my 'padding' is gone. Nerveless trunk and a fleshless chine Make me a loathely Valentine How can I greet a ghostly love Knowing not where her soul is fled In the Courts that confine the myriad dead? How can I follow her flight and discover? Here, from behind my dungeon bars, Goeth my question up to the stars:— "Moon in the sky, "Suns as ye roll, "Meteors that fly "Search for her soul. "Bring me her greeting "Spirits of grace "Planets swift fleeting "Through infinite space. Waste worlds that, fireless, "Wander destroyed; "Comets that, tireless, "Whirl through the void "By the gateways of Hades, "Of pale Proserpine "Oh! tell her this shade is "Her true Valentine."