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
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
if my dear ones came!
-Fannie Stearns Davis