NIGHT

Funereal Darkness, drear and desolate,

Muffles the world. The moaning of the wind

Is piteous with sobs of saddest kind;

And laughter is a phantom at the gate

Of memory. The long-neglected grate

Within sprouts into flame and lights the mind

With hopes and wishes long ago refined

To ashes,— long departed friends await

Our words of welcome: and our lips are dumb

And powerless to greet the ones that press

Old kisses there. The baby beats its drum,

And fancy marches to the dear caress

Of mother-arms, and all the gleeful hum

Of home intrudes upon our loneliness.