I <br /> <br />At dead of night about the dying fire <br />They told a story how the dead appear; <br />And men, grown still with fear, <br />Forgot their old desire <br />For those who once were dear, <br />And shook and trembled lest their dead be near. <br /> <br />Alas, poor dead who were so sweet and human! <br />How are you grown a menace and a blight <br />A thing to shun, a thing of evil omen, <br />Stealing unwelcome through the halls of night?, <br />Who knows? perhaps yourselves are much affrighted, <br />And struggle back, remote and bodiless, <br />Fearful of sounds unheard, visions unsighted, <br />Black echoes, and the bitter loneliness. <br /> <br />But for me, in my heart is no dread <br />Of the coming again of the dead, <br />But a terror of life, without one <br />Who made life to be life - and is gone. <br /> <br />II <br /> <br />Yes, at these tales of how the dead return, <br />Hope stirs within my spirit more than fear. <br />So strange, so strange it seems, you are not here, <br />And so unnatural to me 'tis to learn <br />The trick of life without you, year by year, <br /> <br />That not so strange could any specter be <br />Or fall of footsteps on the empty stair, <br />Or shapes discerned upon the shadowy air, <br />As is this haunting sense of vacancy, <br />And your persisting absence everywhere. <br /> <br />Ah, could I see, as in the tranquil past, <br />The form I long for - always and in vain, - <br />Should I not cry, like one released from pain: <br />'Dear and long absent, you return at last, <br />And life its natural aspect wears again!'<br /><br />Alice Duer Miller<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/exile-21/
