Ghosts by Fannie Stearns Davis

I am almost afraid of the wind out there. The dead leaves skip on the porches bare, The windows clatter and whine. I sit Here in the quiet house, low-lit, With the clock that ticks and the books that stand, Wise and silent, on every hand.

I am almost afraid, though I know the night Lets no ghosts walk in the warm lamp-light. Yet ghosts there are; and they drift and blow Out in the wind and the scattering snow. -- When I open the windows and go to bed Will the ghosts come in and stand at my head?

Last night I dreamed they came back again. I heard them talking; I saw them plain. They hugged me and held me and loved me; spoke Of happy doings and friendly folk. They seemed to have journeyed a week away, But now they were ready and glad to stay.

But oh, if they came on the wind to-night Could I bear their faces, their garments white Blown in the dark round my lonely bed? Oh, could I forgive them for being dead? I am almost afraid of the wind. My shame! That I would not be glad if my dear ones came!