THE house is haunted; when the little feet <br />Go pattering about it in their play, <br />I tremble lest the little one should meet <br />The ghosts that haunt the happy night and day. <br /> <br /> <br />And yet I think they only come to me; <br />They come through night of ease and pleasant day <br />To whisper of the torment that must be <br />If I some day should be, alas! as they. <br /> <br /> <br />And when the child is lying warm asleep, <br />The ghosts draw back the curtain of my bed, <br />And past them through the dreadful dark I creep, <br />Clasp close the child, and so am comforted. <br /> <br /> <br />Cling close, cling close, my darling, my delight, <br />Sad voices on the wind come thin and wild, <br />Ghosts of poor mothers crying in the night-- <br />'Father, have pity--once I had a child!'<br /><br />Edith Nesbit<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/haunted-64/
