But she never stooped: they lay all night,
As when she turned away,
And left them—and the saddest light
Shone in her eyes of grey.
She gave a smile in glancing round,
And sighed, one fancied, then—
But never they knew where she was bound,
Or saw her face again,
But the old prompter, grey and frail,
They heard him murmur low,
"It only could be Meg Coverdale,
Died thirty years ago,
"In that old part, who took the town;
And she was fair, as fair
As when they shut the coffin down
On the gleam of her golden hair;
"And it wasn't hard to understand
How a lass as fair as she
Could never rest in the Promised Land,
Where none but angels be."
A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN
After all the house is dark,
And the last soft step is still,
And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow
Flickers on the window sill—
When the village lights are out,
And the watch-dogs all asleep,
And the misty silver radiance
Makes the shade look black and deep—
When, so silent is the night,
Not a dead leaf dares to fall,
And I only hear the death-watch
Ticking, ticking in the wall—
When no hidden mouse dares gnaw
At the silence dead and dumb,
And the very air seems waiting
For a Something that should come—