Ah , you who disbelieve in ghosts,
Or think they only brood by night:
What call you this supernal flight,
Like portent from mysterious coasts, —
Gentle and grave and silver-white,
A spirit-beauty in its might, —
As though great Nature breathed a sigh
Across the blue October sky,
Whence all the clouds have fled in fright?

Is it the wraith of that lost craft
That, on one morning brimmed with wine,
Floated in dream o'er Naples' bay,
Circling where purple Capri lay
And island waters lapped and laughed?
We — the companions of her play —
How, in such joy, could we divine
The glory that was not to be —
That soon, beyond the Western sea,
Her soul, an exile save in name,
Should take its final flight in flame!