A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

After all the house is dark,

And the last soft step is still,

And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow

Flickers on the window sill--

When the village lights are out,

And the watch-dogs all asleep,

And the misty silver radiance

Makes the shade look black and deep--

When, so silent is the night,

Not a dead leaf dares to fall,

And I only hear the death-watch

Ticking, ticking in the wall--

When no hidden mouse dares gnaw

At the silence dead and dumb,

And the very air seems waiting

For a Something that should come--

Suddenly, there stands my guest,

Whence he came I cannot see;

Not a door has swung before him,

Not a hand touched latch or key,

Not a rustle stirred the air;

Yet he stands there, brave and mute,

In his eyes a look of greeting,

In his hand an old-time flute.

Then, with all the courtly grace

Of the old Colonial school,

From the curtain-shadowed corner

Forth he draws a three-legged stool--

(Ah, it was not there before!

Search as closely as I may,

I can never, never find it

When I look for it by day!)

Places it beside my bed,

And while silently I gaze

Spell-bound by his mystic presence,

Seats himself thereon and plays.

Gracious, stately, grave and tall,

Always dressed from crown to toe

In the quaint elaborate fashion

Of a hundred years ago.

Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose;

Wears my midnight melodist,

Snowy ruffles in his bosom,

Snowy ruffles at his wrist.

Silver buckle at his knee,

Silver buckle on his shoe;

Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited

In a stiff old-fashioned queue.

If I stir he vanishes;

If I speak he flits away;

If I lie in utter silence,

He will sit for hours and play;

Play old wailing minor airs,

Melancholy, wild and slow,

Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens

Of a hundred years ago.

All in vain I wait to hear

Ghostly histories of wrong

Unconfessed and unforgiven,

Unavenged and suffered long;

Not a story does he tell,

Not a single word he says--

Only sits and gazes at me

Steadily, and plays and plays.

Who is he, my midnight guest?

Wherefore does he haunt me so;

Coming from the misty shadows

Of a hundred years ago?

The Haunted Hour: An Anthology · 第 82 / 140 题