THE CHILD AT THE GATE

The sunset was a sleepy gold,

And stars were in the skies

When down a weedy lane he strolled

In vague and thoughtless wise.

And then he saw it, near a wood,

An old house, gabled brown,

Like some old woman, in a hood,

Looking toward the town.

A child stood at its broken gate,

Singing a childish song,

And weeping softly as if Fate

Had done her child's heart wrong.

He spoke to her:— “Now tell me, dear,

Why do you sing and weep?” —

But she — she did not seem to hear,

But stared as if asleep.

Then suddenly she turned and fled

As if with soul of fear.

He followed; but the house looked dead,

And empty many a year.

The light was wan: the dying day

Grew ghostly suddenly:

And from the house he turned away,

Wrapped in its mystery.

They told him no one dwelt there now:

It was a haunted place.—

And then it came to him, somehow,

The memory of a face.

That child's — like hers, whose name was Joy —

For whom his heart was fain:

The face of her whom, when a boy,

He played with in that lane.