Saturday, October 30, 2010


by Fannie Stearns Davis

I am almost afraid of the wind out there. The dead leaves 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 my head?

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 glad if my dear ones came!

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