GHOSTS

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 lamplight.
 Yet ghosts there are; and they blow, they 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 around 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! 

-Fannie Stearns Davis