English poem
Viii. _The Watch._
by Francis Sherman (1825–1905)
Are those her feet at last upon the stair? Her trailing garments echoing there? The falling of her hair?
About a year ago I heard her come, Thus; as a child recalling some Vague memories of home.
O how the firelight blinded her dear eyes! I saw them open, and grow wise: No questions, no replies.
And now, tonight, comes the same sound of rain. The wet boughs reach against the pane In the same way, again.
In the old way I hear the moaning wind Hunt the dead leaves it cannot find,-- Blind as the stars are blind.
--She may come in at midnight, tired and wan, Yet,--what if once again at dawn I wake to find her gone?