With smoky twilights gathering at the door,

With grey mist clouding on familiar ways ...

And well for him who has another near,

When fires are lighted for the dying year.

[13]

[13]

AN OLD HOUSE AND GARDEN

After wet twilights, when the rain is done,

I think they walk these ways that knew their feet,

And tread these sunken pavements, one by one,

Keen for old Summers that were wild and sweet;

Where rainy lilacs blow against the dark,

And grasses bend beneath the weight they bear,

The night grows troubled, and we still may mark

Their ghostly heart-break on the tender air.

Be still! We cannot know what trysts they keep,

What eager hands reach vainly for a door,

Remembered since they folded them in sleep,—

Frail hands that lift like lilacs, evermore,

And lean along the darkness, pale and still,

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