THE RETURN: MINNA IRVING
I pushed the tangled grass away
And lifted up the stone,
And flitted down the churchyard path
With grasses overgrown.
I halted at my mother's door
And shook the rusty catch—
"The wind is rising fast," she said,
"It rattles at the latch."
I crossed the street and paused again
Before my husband's house,
My baby sat upon his knee
As quiet as a mouse.
I pulled the muslin curtain by,
He rose the blinds to draw—
"I feel a draught upon my back,
The night is cold and raw."
I met a man who loved me well
In days ere I was wed,
He did not hear, he did not see,
So silently I fled.
But when I found my poor old dog,
Though blind and deaf was he,
And feeble with his many years,
He turned and followed me.
THE ROOM'S WIDTH: ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS WARD
I think if I should cross the room,
Far as fear,
Should stand beside you like a thought—
Touch you, dear,
Like a fancy—to your sad heart
It would seem
That my vision passed and prayed you,
Or my dream.
Then you would look with lonely eyes—
Lift your head—
And you would stir and sigh, and say,
"She is dead."
Baffled by death and love, I lean
Through the gloom.
O Lord of life! Am I forbid
To cross the room?
HAUNTED: DON MARQUIS