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Ghost

Above the gray-mouthed Pacific, cottages and a thick-walled tower, all made of rough sea rock And Portland cement. I imagine, fifty years from now, A mist-gray figure moping about this place in mad moonlight, examining the mortar-joints, pawing the Parasite ivy: "Does the place stand? How did it take that last earthquake? " Then someone comes From the house-door, taking a poodle for his bedtime walk. The dog snarls and retreats; the man Stands rigid, saying "Who are you? What are you doing here? " "Nothing to hurt you," it answers, "I am just looking At the walls that I built. I see that you have played hell With the trees that I planted. " "There has to be room for people," he answers. "My God," he says, "That still!"