GHOSTS of the dead haunt single places
And on one object turn sad faces,
But live ghosts, infinitely split,
On many beats at once can flit.
With half a hundred towns and friends
And houses I’ve left odds and ends
Of ghost behind me, each a tatter
Of ragged immaterial matter.

How much remainder have I got?
And will God resurrect the lot
With angels on a paper-chase
Picking me up from every place,
Or leave each part where it may be
And call the unmortgaged fraction ME?