Fog

I had a house; I had a yard
Crammed with marigolds, so high,
So deep in fire, that it was hard
Not to believe, if I went by,

I would be blistered to the bone.
All gone. A square of dripping grass
Each side, and underfoot wet stone.
That sound like click of glass on glass.

This spare, hidden beauty all around,
Is not too little, or too much;
A surfeit had I; now am bound
To a ghost’s wealth, too frail for touch.

To a ghost’s weather, that or this
Of its old secrecy left untold;
Relinquished, let alone, I miss
House, nor yard, nor a tall marigold.