THE OLD BED

Streaming beneath the eaves, the sunset light

Turns the white walls and ceiling to pure gold,

And gold, the quilt and pillows on the old

Fourposter bed — all day a cold drift-white —

As if, in a gold casket glistering bright,

The gleam of winter sunshine sought to hold

The sleeping child safe from the dark and cold

And creeping shadows of the coming night.

Slowly it fades: and stealing through the gloom

Home-coming shadows throng the quiet room,

Grey ghosts that move unrustling, without breath,

To their familiar rest, and closer creep

About the little dreamless child asleep

Upon the bed of bridal, birth and death.