VIII. THE WATCH.

About a year ago I heard her come,

Thus; as a child recalling some

Vague memories of home.

O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes!

I saw them open, and grow wise:

No questions, no replies.

And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain.

The wet boughs reach against the pane

In the same way, again.

In the old way I hear the moaning wind

Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,—

Blind as the stars are blind.

— She may come in at midnight, tired and wan,

Yet,— what if once again at dawn

I wake to find her gone?