A MIDNIGHT VISITOR: ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN

After all the house is dark, And the last soft step is still, And the elm-bough's clear-cut shadow Flickers on the window sill--

When the village lights are out, And the watch-dogs all asleep, And the misty silver radiance Makes the shade look black and deep--

When, so silent is the night, Not a dead leaf dares to fall, And I only hear the death-watch Ticking, ticking in the wall--

When no hidden mouse dares gnaw At the silence dead and dumb, And the very air seems waiting For a Something that should come--

Suddenly, there stands my guest, Whence he came I cannot see; Not a door has swung before him, Not a hand touched latch or key,

Not a rustle stirred the air; Yet he stands there, brave and mute, In his eyes a look of greeting, In his hand an old-time flute.

Then, with all the courtly grace Of the old Colonial school, From the curtain-shadowed corner Forth he draws a three-legged stool--

(Ah, it was not there before!

Search as closely as I may, I can never, never find it When I look for it by day!)

Places it beside my bed, And while silently I gaze Spell-bound by his mystic presence, Seats himself thereon and plays.

Gracious, stately, grave and tall, Always dressed from crown to toe In the quaint elaborate fashion Of a hundred years ago.

Doublet, small-clothes, silk-clocked hose; Wears my midnight melodist, Snowy ruffles in his bosom, Snowy ruffles at his wrist.

Silver buckle at his knee, Silver buckle on his shoe; Powdered hair smoothed back and plaited In a stiff old-fashioned queue.

If I stir he vanishes; If I speak he flits away; If I lie in utter silence, He will sit for hours and play;

Play old wailing minor airs, Melancholy, wild and slow, Such, mayhap, as pleased the maidens Of a hundred years ago.

All in vain I wait to hear Ghostly histories of wrong Unconfessed and unforgiven, Unavenged and suffered long;

Not a story does he tell, Not a single word he says-- Only sits and gazes at me Steadily, and plays and plays.

Who is he, my midnight guest?

Wherefore does he haunt me so; Coming from the misty shadows Of a hundred years ago?

HAUNTED: AMY LOWELL

See! He trails his toes Through the long streaks of moonlight, And the nails of his fingers glitter; They claw and flash among the tree-tops.

His lips suck at my open window, And his breath creeps about my body And lies in pools under my knees.

I can see his mouth sway and wobble, Sticking itself against the window-jambs, But the moonlight is bright on the floor, Without a shadow.

Hark! A hare is strangling in the forest, And the wind tears a shutter from the wall.

THE LITTLE GREEN ORCHARD: WALTER DE LA MARE

Some one is always sitting there, In the little green orchard; Even when the sun is high In noon's unclouded sky, And faintly droning goes The bee from rose to rose, Some one in shadow is sitting there, In the little green orchard.

Yes, and when twilight's falling softly On the little green orchard; When the gray dew distils And every flower cup fills; When the last blackbird says, "What--what!" and goes her way--ssh!

I have heard voices calling softly In the little green orchard.

Not that I am afraid of being there, In the little green orchard; Why, when the moon's been bright, Shedding her lonesome light, And moths like ghosties come, And the horned snail leaves home: I've stayed there, whispering and listening there, In the little green orchard.

Only it's strange to be feeling there, In the little green orchard; Whether you paint or draw, Dig, hammer, chop or saw, When you are most alone, All but the silence gone ...

Some one is waiting and watching there, In the little green orchard.

FIREFLIES: LOUISE DRISCOLL

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies?

Are you the old, old dead, Creeping through the long gra.s.s, To see the green leaves move And feel the light wind pa.s.s?

The larkspur in my garden Is a sea of rose and blue, The white moth is a ghost ship Drifting through.

The shadows fall like lilacs Raining from a garden sky, Pollen laden bees go home, Bird songs die.

The honeysuckle breaks a flask, And a breeze, on pleasure bent, Catches in her little hands The sharp scent.

In the darkness and the dew Come the little, flying flames, Are they the forgotten dead, Without names?

Did they love the leaves and wind, Gra.s.s and gardens long ago With a love that draws them home Where things grow?

For an hour with green leaves, Love immortal leaped to flame, From the earth into the night Old hearts came.

What are you, fireflies, That come as daylight dies?

THE LITTLE GHOST: EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high--higher than most-- And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone-- I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown's white folds among.

I watched to see if she would stay, What she would do--and oh!

She looked as if she liked the way I let my garden grow!

She bent above my favorite mint With conscious garden grace, She smiled and smiled--there was no hint Of sadness in her face.

She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new And is of ivy bare She paused--then opened and pa.s.sed through A gate that once was there.

HAUNTED: LOUIS UNTERMEYER