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| I WALKED my fastest down the twilight street; | |
| Sometimes I ran a little, it was so late. | |
| At first the houses echoed back my feet, | |
| Then the path softened just before our gate. | |
| Even in the dusk I saw, even in my haste, | 5 |
| Lawn-tracks and gravel-marks. “That’s where he plays; | |
| The scooter and the cart these lines have traced, | |
| And Baby wheels her doll here, sunny days.” | |
| Our door was open; on the porch still lay | |
| Ungathered toys; our hearth-light cut the gloam; | 10 |
| Within, round table-candles, you—and they. | |
| And I called out, I shouted, “I am come home!” | |
| At first you heard not, then you raised your eyes, | |
| Watched me a moment—and showed no surprise. | |
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| Such dreams we have had often, when we stood | 15 |
| Thought-struck amid the merciful routine, | |
| And distance more than danger chilled the blood, | |
| When we looked back and saw what lay between; | |
| Like ghosts that have their portion of farewell, | |
| Yet will be looking in on life again, | 20 |
| And see old faces, and have news to tell, | |
| But no one heeds them; they are phantom men. | |
| Now home indeed, and old loves greet us back. | |
| Yet—shall we say it?—something here we lack, | |
| Some reach and climax we have left behind. | 25 |
| And something here is dead, that without sound | |
| Moves lips at us and beckons, shadow-bound, | |
But what it means, we cannot call to mind.
Harper’s Magazine | |
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