I hear voices of seasons past,
The loudspeaker, it echoes long:
The marching band, less distant, as
The people drum and sing along

And ghostly players break the tape,
The banners stretched there quickly yield;
As girls there at the peak of youth
Run breathlessly out on the field

The ritual and pageantry
Are new each year, with each new class;
But only ghosts are out here now
I see them
Lightly
Stir
The grass