I am almost afraid of the wind out there. <br />The dead leaves skip on the porches bare, <br />The windows clatter and whine. <br />I sit here in the quiet house. low-lit. <br />With the clock that ticks and the books that stand. <br />Wise and silent, on every hand. <br /> <br />I am almost afraid; though I know the night <br />Lets no ghosts walk in the warm lamplight. <br />Yet ghosts there are; and they blow, they blow, <br />Out in the wind and the scattering snow.- <br />When I open the windows and go to bed, <br />Will the ghosts come In and stand at my head? <br /> <br />Last night I dreamed they came back again. <br />I heard them talking; I saw them plain. <br />They hugged me and held me and loved me; spoke <br />Of happy doings and friendly folk. <br />They seemed to have journeyed a week away, <br />but now they were ready and glad to stay. <br /> <br />But, oh, if they came on the wind to-night <br />Could I bear their faces, their garments white <br />Blown in the dark around my lonely bed? <br />Oh, could I forgive them for being dead? <br />I am almost afraid of the wind. My shame! <br />That I would not be glad if my dear ones came!<br /><br />Fannie Stearns Davis<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ghosts-44/
