One morning, though the station clock said eight,

A Mr. Thorpe of Westerville, a man

Who lived in mortal fear of being late,

Defied his curse in sleep -- some people can.

His wife, a Mrs. Thorpe, grew more and more

Ungentle as she called him; on his eyes

The sun began to shine; eight-twenty-four,

The station clock said now. He must arise.

He rose; he shaved and dressed; meanwhile his wife

Relayed his breakfast like a juggler drilled

For years with cup and spoon, with plate and knife.

Then Mr. Thorpe, a sprinter iron-willed,

Fled down the street as for his very life,

But, falling as he caught his train, was killed.

The station clock said just eight fifty-two

When, from the crowd around the iron post

Where he had fallen, stepped, as good as new,

Not Mr. Thorpe, but his delighted ghost.

He pulled his coat down, brushed a dusty knee,

And dropped his ghostly brief case on a bench.

I'll take my time,' he chuckled. 'Free! I'm free!'

Fantastic thoughts of Cuban girls, and French,

Flashed in his mind, and bloomed like jungle flowers;

Life in the Balkan style, or Philippine;

Moonlight on Arab tents, or English towers.

No trains for ghosts. No clocks to mar the scene.

No clocks to measure daylight into hours.

But when it came, he caught the nine-fifteen.