AN OLD HOUSE AND GARDEN

After wet twilights, when the rain is done,

I think they walk these ways that knew their feet,

And tread these sunken pavements, one by one,

Keen for old Summers that were wild and sweet;

Where rainy lilacs blow against the dark,

And grasses bend beneath the weight they bear,

The night grows troubled, and we still may mark

Their ghostly heart-break on the tender air.

Be still! We cannot know what trysts they keep,

What eager hands reach vainly for a door,

Remembered since they folded them in sleep,—

Frail hands that lift like lilacs, evermore,

And lean along the darkness, pale and still,

To touch a window or a crumbling sill.