O WHEN the half-light weaves Wild shadows on the floor, How ghostly come the withered leaves Stealing about my door! I sit and hold my breath, Lone in the lonely house; Naught breaks the silence still as death, Only a creeping mouse. The patter of leaves, it may be, But liker patter of feet, The small feet of my own baby That never felt the heat. The small feet of my son, Cold as the grave yard sod; My little, dumb, unchristened one That may not win to God. "Come in, dear babe," I cry, Opening the door so wide. The leaves go stealing softly by; How dark it is outside! And though I kneel and pray Long on the threshold-stone The little feet press on their way, And I am ever alone. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COLUMBUS by EDWARD EVERETT HALE WHAT SHALL IT PROFIT? by WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS THE DARK FOREST by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS WHEN I PERUSE THE CONQUER'D FAME by WALT WHITMAN INSCRIPTIONS: 3 by MARK AKENSIDE MAY DAY by ADELAIDE A. ANDREWS |