GHOSTS

I am almost afraid of the wind out there.

The dead leaves skip on the porches bare,

The windows clatter and whine.

I sit here in the quiet house.

low-lit.

With the clock that ticks and the books that stand.

Wise and silent, on every hand.

I am almost afraid; though I know the night

Lets no ghosts walk in the warm lamplight.

Yet ghosts there are;

and they blow, they blow,

Out in the wind and the scattering snow.-

When I open the windows and go to bed,

Will the ghosts come In and stand at my head?

Last night I dreamed they came back again.

I heard them talking; I saw them plain.

They hugged me and held me and loved me;

spoke

Of happy doings and friendly folk.

They seemed to have journeyed a week away,

but now they were ready and glad to stay.

But, oh, if they came on the wind to-night

Could I bear their faces, their garments white

Blown in the dark around my lonely bed?

Oh, could I forgive them for being dead?

I am almost afraid of the wind.

My shame! That I would not be glad if my dear ones came!

-- Fannie Stearns Davis