She is a ghost, who glides like marshy mist,
unknown, unheard, uncared for and unkissed.
A sad and sorry sight, if truth be told,
since she was once a poet, proud and bold.
But nowadays she sneaks through door and wall,
soliloquizing shadow in a shawl.
And when dawn breaks and she feels she’s outstayed
her welcome, then her form and features fade.
This ghost, the locals call, The Lady Grey;
she clasps a prayer book in her hand, they say.
But others of a literary bent
say that she holds her lines of lost lament.
For when she floats like phantom down the aisle;
she greets the altar with a sneering smile.