Are those her feet at last upon the stair?
Her trailing garments echoing there?
The falling of her hair?
About a year ago I heard her come,
Thus; as a child recalling some
Vague memories of home.
O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!
I saw them open, and grow wise:
No questions, no replies.
And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.
The wet boughs reach against the pane
In the same way, again.
In the old way I hear the moaning wind
Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,--
Blind as the stars are blind.
--She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,
Yet,--what if once again at dawn
I wake to find her gone?