I walked my fastest down the twilight street; Sometimes I ran a little, it was so late. At first the houses echoed back my feet, Then the path softened just before our gate. Even in the dusk I saw, even in my haste, Lawn-tracks and gravel-marks. "That's where he plays; The scooter and the cart these lines have traced, And Baby wheels her doll here, sunny days." Our door was open; on the porch still lay Ungathered toys; our hearth-light cut the gloam; Within, round table-candles, you --and they. And I called out, I shouted, "I am come home!" At first you heard not, then you raised your eyes, Watched me a moment -- and showed no surprise. Such dreams we have had often, when we stood Thought-struck amid the merciful routine, And distance more than danger chilled the blood, When we looked back and saw what lay between; Like ghosts that have their portion of farewell, Yet will be looking in on life again, And see old faces, and have news to tell, But no one heeds them; they are phantom men. Now home indeed, and old loves greet us back. Yet -- shall we say it? -- something here we lack, Some reach and climax we have left behind. And something here is dead, that without sound Moves lips at us and beckons, shadow-bound, But what it means, we cannot call to mind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLEEP by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE by ROBERT SOUTHEY OLD WAR-DREAMS by WALT WHITMAN THE LITTLE MATCH-GIRL by HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN SONG OF THE ENGINE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON THE SEAMSTRESS by HENRI BARBUSSE |